Ghosts and Onionskins

Slow to find
your fibred clothes
aren’t pressed colors
against your porous skin

a method
a bloom
this isn’t a poem
it’s a reminder
doctrine to some
scoffed at by some
in the granola section of grocery stores

but if I lean in to kiss
there’s nature to this too
and if you don’t bend toward
to soak that particular sun
well
the rivers and wind and whatever else folk songs are about
move, renew
or at worst disappear
not leaving a corpse
as an altar, begging eulogies
or anything else
that might confuse your two lips
with the business of sadness