The starbright trees and night swirling us close- he and I
in a sudden wintry ballroom, the moon became
mistletoe as he gave me not one,
but forty first kisses, separated, insistent,
as though determined to get the first kiss just right
until his glasses frosted like our breath and my cheeks
sparked like Christmas lights beneath his massive, electric palms.
But perhaps he was less ardent for a moment just right
than committed in soul to an embrace that was wrong?