The Kiss

When Whitman kissed Wilde on the lips,

did the farseeing Tree of Knowledge

shed a leaf or sprout a new one?

Did a noiseless, patient spider catch its prey,

or did it pour forth more filament for a grander prize?

.

Of what asks He are My sailors made?

To reach destinations unfolded

upon a restless sea.

.

Behold gender created with chromosomes in these waters and

enticement of the kind filamenting, reaching for the same in kind

so that an innocent kiss reaches deathless climax—

elementary laws never apologizing,

but rattling the world awake to

that moment of Bursting! Ionizing! Breathing Hot!

While a rainbow appears to silken the eyes.

A Rainbow!

.

Nature without goading, inside the Self

sings of itself in a mirror of the God-switch

that preserved diversity and the origin of all poems.

.

In the beginning, a non-beginning

that will not end this moment,

obsequious and offered to the white stones

who care not for which genitals touch.

And so, the kiss was sealed, a Promise, a Gift, a Porcelain Bowl

into which it all fills and feels according to its form.

.

So, it is still on their lips! It is still on our lips!

The only sin is not to kiss.

Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

And dive into the waters always he says, My Love

because creation is never over.

And lovers of all types will wash one another’s feet.

As it is said.

As the new Word says.