Gravid clouds dome
the mid-morning

when I'm brought to life,
mouthing your name

like a silk gag
between teeth.

My green-washed skin
dulls in the scrape-light

culled from the flat
of the sky. I'm like

a golem, a mute thing
given rough life,

but who is my maker?
Was it you, lover, who

brushed the breeding
moss from my face,

my lips? Who called
me up from the depths?

Fed me breath, recited
the books of the high air,

until I was yours?
Then why am I so restless?

Will I be cast back
with your fingernail

to the wide quiet pool of ink
where you found me?