What it's like to kiss you
by Michael Constantine McConnell

In this silence between thought
and touch, soft, buoyant rain
rolls shadowless through the airtight

dark. The tips of our noses
sweep each other in gestures
too small for the human

eye to detect. I can
imagine doubt's effigy,
propped Christ-like

in a crowless field,
fervently warning how summer
is a splash of melted ice

cream on my knee, your
name the soundless bubble
between my lips when I dream.

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