---

Love is

in the bottom of a cup of Greek coffee.

Your face wet from rain.

I smile.

 

Sitting on the front porch in chairs

we dragged out from the kitchen,

our hands wrapped around white ceramic mugs,

you look up to where the stars should be.

 

We talk about human spontaneous combustion

so hard that I can smell her flesh,

charring from the inside out.

 

You talk about death,

but I wonder if her heart burned first.

 

I recall a poem about mutiny

in a coffee house,

and a drawn-out description

of the color of blood,

just before its first breath.

 

I am watching raindrops

jump up from somewhere beneath

muddy

puddles.

 

My hair is wet. 

My naked feet, cold.

And you blow me our first

real kiss.