just geese

twice now we have kissed, discarded books between us,
Sappho and Frame pressed to chest-to-chest.
is this a literary life?

other times when we touch, nothing is there
but thin sheets of articulated fears.
so soft; evaporated edge.

ghosts might remember us, we don’t hold
their ankles anymore. they sail up further
than where the sky becomes space and

maybe they are heading home. maybe home
is where i cry and tell you, where we look
to the sea and the moon, dancing, until the sun goes.

none of this enough 
to stop inevitability; soft animal bodies
loving what they love.