deepundergroundpoetry.com
Planting
Holding the reddish sphere
between my thumb and forefinger,
I remember the smooth-skinned tulip
bulbs we planted last fall.
Their spring colors will never approach
the handsomeness of my lover’s flesh.
My lips press over him with a practiced
pucker, tasting the weeping lips
at the tip of his firm bulb.
Every seed should be
kissed before planting.
between my thumb and forefinger,
I remember the smooth-skinned tulip
bulbs we planted last fall.
Their spring colors will never approach
the handsomeness of my lover’s flesh.
My lips press over him with a practiced
pucker, tasting the weeping lips
at the tip of his firm bulb.
Every seed should be
kissed before planting.
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