One fish, two fish
right foot, left foot;
red fish, blue fish
good foot, bum foot.

Like a little nursery rhyme,
each step I take in this summer night
is an opposite; these things,
they are sometimes fears
and are always from her.

I am hiding now. My more beautiful nature
is not singing at 2am when men are in their beds,
nor does he compose forlorn poetry in his underwear.
He is, I hope, sleeping.
Hibernation, staccato heartbeats, childhood poems,
and one well-tethered memory:

I can only hope his beauty
is in the transformation.