Between our Lips

There is a desert between our lips
that could not be watered
by all the springs and rains
but only
by a wet kiss.

The dew
that turns
all the tumbleweeds
green,
all the lizards
to nightingales,
all the withered thorns
to rose stems,
all the boulders
to choristers,
all the exclamations to serenades,
all the hurts to desires
and all the
indurated bitterness
to sugarplum,

a wave
that turns all the craggy capes
to melting sugarloafs.