where our state-lines entwine
your kiss is wet and dark enough
to grow mushrooms. your breath
is chanterelles on my face
pinked by summer.
before i tasted you, i didnt know
i was hungry as these moths the
gnatcatchers on the jag move like
your fingers when you open up about
your past. their plumage seems bluer,
and more radiant with my pulse up
like it is, and all the little drips
from downy leaves.