This is to kiss her lips:
a snapshot photo at the arc
of a swing when we were laughing
and hanging back on the ropes
caught at the zenith before
the downward plunge, before
the forward throw of your body
and giddy backward rush and rise.

The spinning out of this universe
turns to quiet collapse and no one
knows but me. Somewhere

in the mantle of the hawthorne
a raindrop drips and slides
along a leaf into the small of its back.
The well of it globes until it’s too heavy
and runs to the lobed lip to gather
again and again to drop from leaf to leaf.

Here I wait to meet you.

Here I wait, not knowing
how many years it takes.