Symphony No. 6 in A minor

​I tune to an hourglass at the bottom of the sea. 
 
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.