Snap

Thumb and third finger
Snap, crackle, pop.
To be the wind of whimsy
To hear the beat in the breeze
To be a bird of prey
To feast upon vulnerability
To lick dew drops from leaves
To taste the dawn
To shuffle through green, green grass
To feel earth growing slower than snail’s pace.
Thumb and third finger
That baseline drop
To be the Technicolor sky
To cascade on pulsating sound
To be the hands on her hips
To trace as she sultry-spins round
To lick sweat from your lips
To taste the night
To two-step to whose step but hers
To feel ground beating as fast as hearts race.