Just say, “scummy waves;” that’s the sort of kiss
I want. Something so foul that it sucks down

seagulls in its wake. There’s a dead princess
who claims she’s a Czarina. Her pocked gown

looks a tad Orthodox. We made out, once,
though it felt like deep-throating an ice cube.

That cold got everywhere. There’s a science
to it, like when I swam in the Danube;

something pulled both my legs wide. I could feel
each wave lapping. Everything should lap, dog.

And the puckering … and the — tie my tubes,
lip gloss. If you want this, make it surreal.

Like the dead who kiss since they’re only fog,
or the living with fondness for ice cubes.