Kissing the plate

We were taught today the trick of a stage embrace.
'Imagine you are kissing a plate,' our teacher said.
And I can see the wisdom of the ruse:
chastening a saucy tongue,
defusing garlic breath,
with a filter of white ceramic.

And also, when there's babies to be found
in handbags, tarantellas danced,
or caesars stabbed before the world,
how foolish it would seem if, eyes closed,
we fell at the touch of human lips, fell
deep into the velvet darkness of tenderness, fell
as if to sleep, fell
according to the gravity of tenderness,
fell like seeds into black earth.

So if the wish to fall emerges,
refuse:
kiss the plate, till you reach the final bows,
and read next day your fairly-good reviews.
Or else remain an amateur.