The Kissing From Above Poem by Gert Strydom

We are back with the kissing from above,
back with the shining faces baking outside,
their desires climbing as a ritual
like a pergola.

Fragile
we are back at the kissing, if we do not get wet from ripe.
Back with the witticisms, where hour upon hour there is being gossiped:
the questions that become unsafe,
where everyone are lost and baggy afraid of the shining
that comes back with hidden things
and the eyes glitter with questions that get larger,
against the pain that scratches and swarm,
calm.

O my beloved dreamer: you catch Johnny naked at the fence
where you peep big-eyed through the bush as a bride.

And at the figure
among the hillocks, made by the hands of a ancient master
your half eaten fruit is spoiled, through sorrow I try to reach to you
against the hour when a whimper at a time was nice,
that happening by bewitchment
where once upon a time love was written on the sand.
Indeed, we are back at the kissing from above,
stolen bended bodies find depth for their bosses,
pasted together.