Meeting With A Former Lover

Your passion is crazy,

and the stars are swirling,

and the moon goes wild,

and so do the geese in the lake.

I don’t want to fall in

but I keep tipping

like that bottle of wine you keep

emptying into my glass.

We are sitting in folding chairs on the pier,

your face and hair lurid in the moonlight.

I’m waiting patiently for a response to my initial question,

but you keep going on and on

telling me your story about

how you drove up to Canada,

and how a flock of geese flew past your motel window,  

and how that reminded you of me,

the thrill of it,

the freedom of it.

You will never be done talking, it seems.

I will never know:

what is it that we are doing here?

Even by the moonlight,

I can tell you’re blushing.

That is all the answer I need.