In this last, clear-cut story, you are tree, I am
Wind shaking, you scuttling through spring 

Sphere. We are water, I am current, you are—

I open my eyes and I am on the wharf, grey
Clouds roiling by in a mixer of slate-

Colored sky, I am shaking. You are crab, we are

Water in large percentages. You could be
Home, or wherever we find ourselves sleeping,

Together at the shore. Did you watch close

Or did you come home to find the lone poppy
Already blossomed in a bottle, petals just ready to

Or already dropping, one by one. They keep

Occurring to me and I have not found a way.
I stop it. The smells are of organic rotting, people

Holding in their hands tangled nets, walk away

Hidden by skin-colored sand. I have been crueler
To my own already. You are eyes shut when or if

And I want you to see the formation of gulls or

This world without me in it, whatever you find most
Beautiful, I want to cut you loose, out of me, bury

Us in a bottle for you to find later, always keep.