Kissing in the Wind

This is the spasm before the touch,
         Or a larynx stuck in the flaring void
         Of stillborn heartbeats.
    Before the West was known
         It yawned my Eastern glow,
         Multiplied by the eye of the fly
         In a thousand flowing oceans'
Impulsive glances
                                            And in their blow,

I am the drunkard before the liquor,
         Tongue-stuck on the kiss
         Of a bottleneck
    Before the wind dies down.