The Queue for the Kiss-gate

The festival ended aeons ago

but the queue haunts on

between two fields to a meadow. 

Only a few ahead of us now,

jovial, as if the rusty clang-

clang tolled fresh vows.

A sapling thrills in the breeze 

like a dog shaking off a river.

Children lose themselves in trees.


And now that we’re inside 

the cage, we admit to nerves.

It’s late

                  yet the sun confuses

the year, its glitter in our eyes

as we kiss

                       neither too old

nor afraid to pass through

to the second field.