Your shoulders become, eventually,
Clay. Night after night —
You make an art of it.

When you are asleep, you are quiet,
And I can make you anybody.
I can make you anything —
A brick house, straw bundles, boats that depart at night.
I make an art of it.

Your feet harden and dry out.
They grow cold after the hot grass and the wet sun.
Your heart is an empty oven
That after an hour
Has already cooled to stone.