We see geese in the air. We posit takeoff,
posit landing. We see geese on the ground, in grass.
We posit a second home in water.
We would have missed the geese in the air if
not for the shadows of flying geese.
The geese we saw in the grass
were wary of a dog of its leash. A bark alerted us.
We saw sentry geese eyeing the dog.
We posited nesting.
We discussed. We posit
the self as feather. We continue to posit the we
for whom the spokesperson
is me. We speak of life
as a long, long, climb. Doesn't
really matter that there isn't a we here
aside from right here
where I say it. Doesn't matter that
I've been bleeding to death
for years, leaving myself on chairs
and dollar bills,
on shoestrings, in palms.
We posit getting there. We posit
a there that is nothing
like here. We breathe
in heavy after an uphill stretch, hands on hips,
clasped and cupping the head. We posit
that the shadows of angels
are identical to the shadows of geese. We
whisper and we don't know why.
Previously published in Squaw Valley Review