Nestlings

How many worms have you cooped up
in the beaks of your wide kisses,
mouth to mouth
on the nest of these nestlings' desire to bloom?

how many tunes in the squirm of your fingers
on the harp of my senses,

when you whisper music under my skin,
when I
could hear the music susurrating
in your touches,
in your silence,

and your silence
in the susurration
of every music
beaconing me to twirl
out of the basket
of this chest?