To touch what I should not touch,

to kiss whom I should not kiss;

we must be a slow walk of parallel shadows untouching,

sliced by sunshine splitting

but for a better angle to see ourselves overlapping,

that your shade of gray sets perfectly atop mine,

we cannot pierce this thin film.

Fine then, dreams of some other nature then:

a waterfall falling and splashing, wet,

a spit-licked log heaving itself down a canal,

wind to lay itself atop the ground and moan

a noise of heavy, heavy breathing

while a great miner stands over the round rumps

of steely Gaia’s rocks,

wields his great mining tool

and splits the earth open.

Or, that’s all to say,

when an evening winds to a close

and fingers list over empty cups,

when a head rests upon a forbidden shoulder,

a whisper:

“It must have been the liquor.”

Necessary response:

“Lick her? I hardly know her!”