And thus it passed
that a quickening
or angel saliva,
but a quickening nonetheless)
cantered along our causeways,
thirty (one) odd palpitations
and at least two bronchial mambos,
replete with the stateliest of spasms
and a gauzy waft of brine upon our shoulders.
I, in my puerile attempt to contribute,
feigned a feigned undulation or four.
It was earnest, at least and at most.
In no uncertain terms will I relay
how the quickening diffused the light
into pulsating chains of mudras
all along the periphery of our awareness.
In all uncertain terms will I divulge
how I could only divine
the tacit message of the mudras
as your lazy touch met the back of my arm.
Such a turning of torsos as we were jettisoned across the trade winds.
We had not seen the cosmos so giddy
since we thrust our palms deep into the tall grass
at the instruction of Mrs. Tovich,
the cavernous lines of her face exhaling
as she charged us with exhuming
the random and unfettered cadence
offered us from beneath
the benevolent swash of reeds—
her voice and her knuckles cracked with humor
as we were upended at the palms,
our pulses sublimated with that of everything.
We chided the cosmos for its impish candor—
with breath gushing past our russet cheeks
in manic tumults of joy or laughter or being—
as one would chide an old friend.