In lieu of an apology

Feeling more like a footprint in the snow
or a syllable hung to the privacy of air, I tell myself
that these are sufficient things
insofar as the ocean needs nothing
to be whole but itself, or the sky remains sky
even without the flock of geese, but nevertheless
their sharp formation wounding the blue,
nevertheless the stone when it violates a lake,
as if my foot on the mat and knocking on the door
is a violent act all together, as if the knuckle
is more dangerous than sharks, but which of the two
kill more people annually, how do I kiss you
without making a sound that my heart would hear,
how do I keep my head from eavesdropping
on the conversation between your tongue
and your teeth, and when you ask me
where all the snow goes when spring arrives
I’d shrug my shoulders and let a sigh
stand for an apology, which in this case
I hope would suffice.