The Bread We Eat in Dreams

even a little,

even a pine tree,

even a sea.

When I kissed her

she tasted like gunmetal cities

pricked with soapy, foaming green:

strange-bred grasses clutching at air,

like a polished sheet of polar ice,

and she dancing upon it, a new kind of beast,

feet blue and bare,

heedless, atavistic, her hair an explosion

which, of course, is red,

could never have been anything other

than red.

In her kiss,

she walks naked through Hellas Planitia;

her pilgrim road all on fire, under crystal,

under a golden sizzle of solar wind.

Her teeth on my lips I watch her buy

this memory from a bazaar,

drink krill from a pink glass vial,

mate with a toad-skinned boy,

and hold against her small breasts

an ultraviolet bubble

wherein she and I are kissing,

forever,

so very like living things.

When I kissed her

she tasted like two moons tumbling,

gleaming, old bones cast into the sky