There is no rain beneath the shifting sea
where your teeth hold steady to the sunken floor
and appear strange to their old jawbones,
which argue separately against an angry moon.
Maybe you are still whole and stuffed with air,
locked in the belly of a whale
like Jonah or Pinocchio, fashioning wax candles
to watch your terribly steady doom—
in a panicked dialogue with God,
proof that you are not absolute,
and the parts of a universe still imaginary to me
will commit to its fables and prophecies,
and the sea will spit you out
the moment I forget the shape of your face
and the spirits I abandoned to bring you back.