Sibilant and slow, your mouth
shapes moist shushes, sliding through those lips,
surfacing bursting and disappearing,
like soap bubbles in the kitchen sink.

Lip skin slaps pink skin,
transmitting sounds found
underneath rocking chairs - a hiss
that hums in all the secret places
tucked between these singing nerve endings,
my skin, and your sideways glance.

Some say it's best when there is anger,
or a sadness, in the hiss, the sort
that scrunches up inside sinuses and stings,
impossible to forget.

But the dreamers, like me, worship
the swinging hiss of sky displaced
as satellites circle Saturn, a shivery
and simple swoosh, serenading
all the sweat-flecked lovers
with its barely audible sigh, hiss.

Concentrate now. Do you hear?
Snatches of seething hisses in celebration,
six thousand stars constantly ravaged by the cosmos,
sparks striking, satiated with bliss, dying in streaks,
discharging soft white static, rosy and solemn,
slobbery hisses, hisses,
hisses escape.

Hush, hush now.
Listen.