Beneath the waves, the glass sings a sufferable harmony—
that like the thickening of the human face;
that like my ghost who sings all of his minutes away.
On the long table lay his last great aloneness.
He once loved a woman who lived at the foot of a mountain
of scrying monkeys—our human dream:
a ship in two places, twin stars of an equal birth, named.
In a dream,
I found the mountain and stole her from him.
The face of the man is never the face of the man who faces
two places: we are only deep enough when we are face down
among hours, caught in the hand like a dead clock in water.