Kissing Air by Anne Walsh

 

 

 

Kissing Air

 

The carpentry, the groove, the sanded small

of my back where you fit, the moon surface

surprise of your tongue,

both in the scent of an orange just peeled

somewhere on the platform

(maybe god is peeling it).

Even waiting for a train everything I do is sexual.

I kiss air.  I peel the memory of your tongue

with someone else’s orange.