An ointment tastes

of things I’ve lost

Caked on at night

By morning an arid cracking of my youth

Fissured salt flats and an alien moon

Peppered splinter ground in cedar

Hypoglossal hints of eucalyptus

carbonated with ozone thrusts

Hiss and steam, cheek to lingual buds

The ferric twang of denuded lip

And always the moisture

Of another man’s kiss

© Richie Smith