Fusion

It is 1957

The Bomb is on our lips

Kiss me.

We will explode.

Our sighs will push

Across brush lands

And water towers

Whose foundation is

Marked with crayons

Composing symphonies

The wind will be dry

Irradiated with blue

Shards of glass

Passing through pinwheels,

Becoming an orchestra

Of blurred touches,

Held hands, hoarse whispers.

Strangers will walk this land

And find pieces of our hearts.

They will build a statue

Of two parted lips entwined.

It is 1957

The Bomb is on our lips.

Kiss me.