Bond of Drooling

The saliva runs through the teeth
and bubbles off the gum.
Pop.
Simmers down the bottom lip,
glosses over the helm of face.
This tongue
dives in its battalion of buds
fizzled to grains of pink opal
flailed against the lips.

The summer ills to a sauna.
I drift through there,
soaked through oral winds at 98.
Breathing with the air of the vocal valley orchestra
at the dawn
of sweeping poppy field
floated by a yawn
through a mouth of light —
ground to the fruity cheek —
as a woman of words' always are.