Without Death (Sex with a Ghost)

I'm abjectly in lust with a ghost. Having sex with a ghost

is the most reckless bliss: unworldly and twisted

and too good to miss. And oh – can it kiss!

We rest after it with some make-believe toast & ghost tea.

It mimes drinking Oolong. I make like I’m eating

burnt rye. We happily sigh and offhandedly

muse, or – depends on our moods – intellectually settle in

to discuss what our views that day happen to be

on what teleological theory might do some

justice to why we are us. Though we both tend to end

in the same philosophical bus. If I, for example,

rhetorically query him: Isn’t it treason against

a Grand Plan for Phantasm & Man to dive into such lust?

It says don’t make a fuss. Then it will resume its

more worthy pursuit – of exhuming the thrill

of its deathless erotic finesse at undressing my heretofore

hidden, but now – since it knows what deceased  

means, and thus what release means – are

well-known excesses, and not quite perhaps what you think.

Think of taking a drink of infinity, so to amass a vast

tenderness you couldn’t grasp without death.

.