1-800-Love
be aroused by traces of my smile... —
a peony's taste at the route of your lips,
a canvas of incidents expressed
with the force of gravity at the power
of ambition and hope in finesses
of a fantasy metamorphosed
with the art of a kiss for the fault
of an overwhelming attraction incited
by distance and accessed discreetly
with that luring call at 1-800-love
of the morning heat subjugated
in a blue opaline confusion of a dream
