What am I made of, sitting here like this:
half underwater, alight,
a yellow, salted, fleshy thing–tenderized?
something like the breath I took when I sat on that roof,
a breath that already-decayed parts of me can’t now assimilate.
Two sources told me–
in two separate years–
that I am going to age well.
And from them I must hide the asphyxiated parts.
And the parts that remain have no purpose other than
to reawaken what has already died.