onto which I gently place lips ´
and hold them
until I hear soft moaning
escape from your breath
as the strands of your hair
shift, as your head falls ´
forward, a boat adrift,
suddenly loosed
from mooring.
There is no rush
in moon movement,
only unwavering momentum.
There is no wondering when
or what will happen
on the other side of the Earth.
The moon is already
where it is intending to go.
In this sense, lips
have always been there
on the back of your neck, kissing
the moon. And you
have always been softly moaning.
