He surged into this bedroom on a hurricane,
mainly on the carpet, but this room can’t
be his home, can’t hold his winds and sirens.
He shoots out empty photographs like tarot cards
on my worn-in table and asks me if I want
to know if I can love a fuller mind than his.
He gives up a clay heart for me to destroy
into oblivion right by the flooded pool,
where he is slowly crying water from a clay face.
Underwater, empty pots will not sink
half-clay, half-tear, melting symmetry.
Solo statues that crack in the sunlight