by Clayton Bruckert
(New York, NY)
Known only through eyes giving into each other
Quite willing to settle gazing at nothing else.
Eyes sharing an offing locked in pairs glassing air
Between their pupils, lost in mist, blind to anything else.
And lips, lips limited to the making of speech
Accustomed to castle walls, ocean sprays, chess boards.
Lips better fitted to assuming exhales reach
A hot wire, direct line to attire on the base board.
Discovered by an ear finer than the outer pair
Which hears dancing footfalls like tambourine cymbals
Down forgotten hallways kept for our arrival.
There passion's deep, there it's held like cold drafty air.