The police can have
Their balaclavas and
Their rubber bullets and
not for me,
How could I feel your speed bump ribs,
and your hand on my arm?
The people can keep
Their signs and
Their slogans and
My only demand is that this kiss last a little longer
All good things should last just a little bit longer.
Because I know the truth
can’t be shouted through a bullhorn.
in block letters
The truth is in your neck:
The whispered crease where it meets your jaw.
We’ll lay low there ’til this blows over.