Your lips are a mystery to me.
I have studied their soft implications:
how moisture beads, tongue-touched
after certain words have rained;
their principle unfolding beneath
the warmth of breath, gathered
upon their petals, as if
tasting the humid sun;
I want so much to know
how your lips blush shamelessly,
why their feathered curve feels
like a moan, how they ripen
subtly into kisses, the tongue
in which they say take of us
and feed, smear your pollen
we will make blossoms and smiles.