The Door


Oh, no, not the tips of my fingers into that
mouth of yours
perfect lips stretched across the imperfect arc
of your upper teeth
these fingers of mine anxious as
doves flushed out of manzanita
skitter across your chin, over the bridge of your nose
avoid your mouth for the sheer overload

but you ensnare them as they flutter up
bring them down and into
that sweet vestibule
"That's my weakness, I protest.
"That's a door." you whisper.

This poem first appeared in Poetry at the 33 Review, Fall 95

© Peter Harris-Kunz, 1996

Poems by Peter Harris-Kunz


The Albany Poetry Workshop