Making a smile,
my lips open,
                making you.

You are the sexiest consonant,
                          enacting its yearning,
        persuasive, insistent, superb
at wet grass,
                     poolside sizzle,
        and mist rising from rivers.

You slink and slide off my tongue.

                     You are sprint and start and sudden,
        coeval with snap but also

S, you slip through me
           – not a snore, more like
                    a shore upon which new waves
                              crash and embellish
       silvering shingle.

You surprise me,
                    the first sniff
          in sorry, the final shout
                    in yes.


Anthony Wilson