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Joanne Merriam A Kind of Honey The birds this morning are loud.We grin together — whatever it is we are together — over a kind of script we've created for the drowsing cloudiness of skin. The window is open and the air smells of grass. The day today is perfect. We grab at it — whatever it is we remember — always a kind of honey, touchable; and we drown under the burning, courageous friction of our lips.
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