You sleep and I stay up leaned over a pillow
assessing your body: seven pounds of bone
enough iron in you to make a good sized nail.
You will wake in six or seven hours
and I’ll say remember this or remember that
but I am lonely now. The dark pulls
at me like the tail of a scaled beast. Why are you so tender?
How ridiculous of you to have only a fist-sized
heart, such damp and complicated lungs. You
are seventy percent water, all slosh and tide.
In my dream the sea is you, your ribcage shore
patrolled by a curl-sized god
who growls at me
and holds his trident out.
— From Self Portrait as a Clock, 2013