A Kind of Honey
The birds this morning are loud.
We grin together — whatever it is we are together —
over a kind of script we've created
for the drowsing cloudiness of skin.
The window is open and the air smells of grass.
The day today is perfect.
We grab at it — whatever it is we remember —
always a kind of honey, touchable;
and we drown under the burning,
courageous friction of our lips.