Riches.

In the very midst of my riches,
the gold gravel silting up in the future's little corners,
I begin to wonder: where can I start to strip it.
How much can I set loose in the near-zero gravity
of whatever my life floats in, the aqueous, imageless
process I dream up as God's mind.

Let's see: no cat, no kids, no dog. But what about the man
waking and ticking like a fire beside me,
the shining track of privacy running parallel to mine.

Him I will love with my whole disappearing act.
Him I will love with the clock talking explicit trash in my throat.
Him I will love the length of my unspooling ordinal numbers.
Him I will love jangling the bracelets of minutes stacked
all the way, all the way, up both arms.