How delightful to kiss one’s lover demurely, behind the 
ear’s fluted fan.  Tenderly, on the silk pillow of the 
upper eyelid where veins flutter like dragonfly wings. 
Triumphantly, atop the eyebrow’s summit.  Reverently, 
at the temple where reverberation can be felt but not 
heard.  Impudently, at the tip of the nose so the eyes 
cross. 

It is refreshing, indeed, to kiss, each in turn, a lover’s 
finger tips.  To travel down each tributary into the 
languid poem of the hand.  To rush along the pulsing 
river of the wrist.  To drift into crooked confluence of 
elbow.  To ride the ivory rapids of rib.  To drown in the 
pools of throat, shoulder. 
 

Copyright 2001,  Susan Erickson