Most sins pass through the lips, eventually,
through lips
rough like shuffled cards
or soft as a rouged mist or lips of girls
that blush like red snappers glinting glib
in the thundering light over a darkened bay
as she moves from room to room.

Lips calligraphic or
spasmodic; dragonfly-mouths
or lips that clench roll-ups
or show teeth between them like a pair of pearls
nudging at each other in a silk-lined box.

Lips that drag you screaming to their ruddy
breath-doors or
clothe deserts with their words.

Or lips that murmur to keep

the engine turned on
in a car park on a spring evening.