Monday, October 23, 1995



I sing the song of my Kokovin,
with kisses of mollasses and wine.
She wants to steal my lips,
my tongue. They're mine,
c'est à moi she says,
et pour l'instant she's right.

Perhaps I'll tell her later
she has only a temporary pass,
un droit passager to my mouth.
I need it to enjoy her syrup matted skin.

Her lips are poetry to my ears,
a french Koko-rico
in the morning of my doze.
There's a licorice innocence
to her candy games.

She takes me playfully,
tickling down ears and neck
A spidery host slipping down its thread
to couch and blanket its new guest.
Her sugar coated chants
trap me in cotton candy webs,
chocolate feelers finger my future
and I awake too late
to regret her music
touched in Paris,
where love is not always confectionary in nature.