We haven’t moved from this pier in a couple years. 
All we need to do to be happy is point out fish. 

Sure, we’re just pointing at ripples,  
but we know they’re fish 

because a long time ago we ate an oyster, 
and every time a fish sees another, 

you and me get fed again. Elizabeth,  
when you put your hands to the scales 

the senses lose weight and  
a new full that doesn’t hurt me 

can last in my stomach. The bulk of the meat  
you thin into a braid of arrows, 

and the gills, the difficult scissors taken inside  
to breathe, they’re just wide arrows. 

A kind that points— 
like a hand tremoring 

because there’s a past being pointed to 
that already understood the present. 

Nobody Asked Anything

Nobody asked anything, and then we suffered 
and our words hooked up to the sky 

and there were questions. Questions led to science, 
which led to pills. But we suffered and 

there is no pill to treat time. 
Douse the fire and the candle sheds water. 

Under new light, the dark, I write, 
the hot fat drips lumping  

and water dripping now 
over the columns of fat it made. 

Always movement, even the ground moves, 
nobody asked anything but still 

the bodies hook up: when we run out of air 
we fill with foul gas. 

Quiet Romance

I am too weak for sexual urges anymore  
but I yearn to be naked  
all the time. 

I want to urinate without  
having to pull off  

The world wants me to know  
it’s okay to slip into and out  
of her. She likes it. 

When I die, make sure  
dad doesn’t screw a hat on me  
to keep the brains in.  

And let nobody put a shirt on me.  
Let death put her cool head  
on my stomach for a listen. 

I want every hole naked:  
the pupils, nostrils, the two  
below my gut. I want to listen back:  

I can hear already  
a roaring in the distance, 
half salt, half horse, 

I like this, I’m scared, but  
so’s the sound. We’ll both  
be guests.