Unghost, the leftover residue across the surfaces of
the sea, after a receding
wave or a skimming of the hands. The present has no
such rhythm, like the sea
and its glassy walls, heart against cheek—a scale to
weigh the whales. 


With a sweaty waistband, Are you afraid of me? I ask.
May I turn you into a wheelbarrow with my hands?
Kiss through your clothes? 

Sometimes I think it was just my imagination, why
should I be afraid to die? I belong

to you; happy to sit with you, here, because it fits to
be outside where one can see
the heels of the clouds while lying on their backs,
dying, as the clouds say back, Bye, Kid,
beautifying balances—where you go to find your
voices. 


My favorite game is Raindrops! she says. Like ours,
she hadn’t tired of their constellations,

of their runaway geometry; I lacked all the manly
graces. Would I have the grace
to help please? Please? As miracles, as prophecy
tongues, please, as
a gift of modern acoustics, please,
as object of “Wonder how it still remains
inside
the skin?”

She has a more generous mouth than I ever could,
until she tells me, Go home.