we play charades

you are making a chopping-down-a-tree gesture
& across town a tree falls over.
we here it whistle & thud
like a body dropping from a building.
there is an axe hovering in the room.
all games involve some fragment 
of truth. our bodies come into focus.
we are playing because the house
is empty & we need to pass the time
before the moon takes the place
of the sun. i draw the card
"rocking a baby to sleep" &
i make a basinette with my arms.
close my eyes & imagine holding
this creature; soft & fragile.
the baby is rocked in a house
blocks away. he floats
above a blue crib. in ten years or so 
he will remember this & come to
believe in ghosts. how can i prove
i am not already a ghost?
i ask you to kiss me all over
to trace the outline of my figure.
you cast a fishing line, moving you left hand
as if to real the fish in.
i think of the stream i used to live by
& my father making that motion
as he tried again & again
to catch a fish. we never caught one
but on our walks we would see them
mocking us from just below the surface.
it is orange in the clouds. a trout
wriggles on a river bank because
of us. i want to stop the game 
but you say we have to continue.
we have almost unfilled the day 
of our bones. i push an elevator button
& the machine goes up without us.
you pull tape out of the dispenser.
i catch butterflies. you fly a kite.
motion is maybe a written language.
i note your elbows & your knees. i watch
the angles of your hips & shoulders 
to notice when they are parallel.
we stir a pot of clam chowder 
up the street. we shoot a bird dead
& pray it wasn't a dove. i beg you
to stop & you hold your hands up
to the overhead light. they glow a faint red
in the shine of the bulb.
i do the same. it's as if we're
seeing our souls togeteher.
i tell you we have done enough 
& you agree. you plead to do
just one more. the house is dark.
the power goes out or maybe 
we just wanted all shadow. 
it is rare that your wants 
manifest before you. i am scared
of my own gestures. i ask you 
if you think i'm a ghost & you don't 
answer me. the final action:
you skip a stone across the water.
we watch out the window 
as if we might witness the stone
rising & following orders.
we do not. the stone sinks 
quietly into the water.
we go to sleep without touching again.
i want to reach over & brush against
your palm, but i don't.
i picture the tree falling
& the axe still alive somewhere.