Door

You left the door ajar
and I came in to read your poem
about a kiss. That cinnamon night
you kissed me first on the neck
saying this was a love poem
you wrote for me
a century ago.

Slowly you poured words
into my parted mouth-
sweet breath, soft milk-
rewrote the long poem
as one lavish, delectable
syllable.

My lips sipped the dream,
our bodies danced out the door,
into the garden, under archways,
through gates, over bridges,
into the next century.