Balance

her.lips.are.copper.wire.

whisper of yellow globes/ gleaming on lamp-posts that sway/ like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog/ and let your breath be moist against me/ like bright beads on yellow globe/telephone the power-house/that the main wires are insulate/(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)/then with your tongue remove the tape/and press your lips to mine/
till they are incandescent...

jean toomer.