of him? His eyes chestnut
but the shine dulled. His embrace
glacial and his talk culled. Has he
another name? He came to me

then as I called him. But now
I holler and his head won't turn. I haven't
shrunk. But I swear I'm smaller standing
next to him. The air between us

doesn't circulate. And his limbs
swing like pendulums and are
just dead weights. The smile slides off
his face. His neck doesn't hold

his head in place. Bobbing like a red buoy
in the water. His chin drowns under his
starched white collar. But his house still sits
on the hill.  And the grass is still green -
and the sky still blue.