A Conversation Of Colors Poem by A Waltz For Zizi

Without warning, he was pushing himself
onto her ornate lips, like a bull
hurtling towards the red velvet of a toreador,
and his lips were not violent at all
but light and trembling, that she
was afrad it was only his breath
touching her, and almost opened her eyes
to make out what was kissing her,
his lips or her own idea, and certainly
would have opened them, if not
for her uncertainty, that it was worse
than that, that it was only a dream.