Mechanics of New York City

Grasping knots of grass and pitching
  two liters of strawberry-blonde lemonade,
we will sit as a pair freckling Central Park's
  rolling vast.

I shall set in motion a tickle of lips,
  giving air to my thoughts
of this moment.

The tuft of sound waves
  frames your face,
giggles about
  the clefts of your ears,
and lands,
  hitching the corners of your lips upright
as if jubilation itself
  had fingertips.