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There is a kiss that reaches
men who carry hopes for happiness
that women dare not speak of
truth that compasses a gilded
agelessness that spins above
our clouded heads, and all
our slings of shot and pot
to puncture to the sun beyond
fall short, the youth that grows
and glows in darklessness cares
nothing for the squabble or
the whip. And so we lie, with
and to each other, reason-clad,
I cling to memories of a kiss
that fell apart, a book I read,
wise man I heard. What
did he say? No clue!

There is a kiss.
There is a kiss.
That’s all I know.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of Rudbeckia, black-eyed Susans,
from my garden