the question posed upon hearing the K.O. bell

What is this flavor,
Soft Earth,
That clings to my face?

That makes me pause and place my hand,
To feel my cheeks, and their parting blush,
That drifting, liquid sense of here and now,
Of places from which I have come, and have not come.

This savoring, the bitterness, and the sweetness,
The copper and the cherry, bubbling in my mouth,
The warm current down my face
That mats my hair and stains my hands,

This unoriginal waking, coming to in the haze of action,
And the dancing of memories,
Jogging forward from the modern-past
That transient time, comes over me in waves of nausea,

And that neon-depth eternal,
Nails me to the floor, mocking solidarity,
Rocking me forward, balancing on river shaken ground,
These thoughts, sentient messages, inborn impulses,
That bring me to know my death-hour dance

And loiter, unhurried…idly… eternally…
Hovering, on my lips,
For the ephemeral moment before we kiss.