A Poem for Kamala’s Kiss

Beautiful brown man,
I thought I could laugh at you,
mock your poverty
as if it equaled no mind,
no heart,
deny you even the kiss
you ask of me in payment
for a simple poem,

but you opened the vessel of your soul
like the cool breeze just before the rain,
and I must have you, drink you in—
my mouth long at the well of your words.

If I were rich, Siddhartha,
I would cast all my gold
into your watery depths
for the honor
of bringing up the bucket
and beholding the sound
of sweet light
again and again.

How I can kiss, Siddhartha,
for the promise
of another poem
tomorrow.