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 You know that gamewe played as kids?
Our soles dancing onthe brim of a gaping mouth, tongue-
depressed, calling toa center of gravity stuck in the back
of its throat,a fish bone caught in Rathke’s pouch,
that happy placebetween down there and up here.
The bone belchesechoes
echoes,something to someone profound.
Deep in that glycerine-filled grave below, we laid eggs that
slept while yearswatched DNA grow stale.
Fertility deep-frozenwaits for a cloud
of sperm that thoughtitself ejaculated
in vain.
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