Dew-Fall

After Ada Limón

I will never be kissed.
Not like the bessbug –
I call my breath
smacker buss,
its permanence
like how the bessbug
practices monogamy.
I call the condensation
squeaker hiss.
I sing the
smacker
into unripened figs,
their leaves
nude, frosted over,
the light aflame,
the morning silent
save for the
crescendo of the prying
goldfinch. His plumage,
citrus-slit for a new mate
with the melting
of the subnivean-crust,
the bessbug burrows,

how I wish for
the smacker hush
hush

Let the dew fall
Let the falling-dewfall drift
Let the dew-fall
Let the dew falling, fall adrift
Let you fall
like the dew-fall might.