To Myself in Ten Years
We’ll live like serpents, you and I.
Leviathans spinning whirlpools from calm
waters, swallowing ships and sirens, alike.
Our arms will break with the tide,
snap at the scapula and dissolve in the silt
while atrophy twists our legs to fins.
Drifting beneath the current,
we’ll pan concrete ruins for gold
until our fingertips prune
gray and flake off like paint.
I will pull you under,
like the blows of a drowning man.
