French Kiss

love

Thin tender ice
Slowly thawing, cracking
To the gentle burn of touch
To the feel of inching in, from juxtaposition,
To a gentle confluence.
And I, the ice fisherman, melting time
On the terminus of a fishing pole,
Wishing to hook a species
Of pink fish that squirms out,
From water to land.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.