He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.

A kid under a tablecloth insists he’s a ghost. A table underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us, only pretending to be invisible.

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.

Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?

Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.

Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?