would be my body

and its only sound, though its only sound
hums incomplete, the way

messages between twins become
messages the dead write with their tongues.

Pollux, your voice is not my voice—
my voice is a slow silence crawling

from earth back to earth, where the rain is just
a parable, but even

as children we refused the frail animal
in my lesser blood. Pollux, let us begin

this autopsy of one, as one
sparrow alights

inside your godhead, or let us fall
from these brethren

mountains: through the fogged tides

I watch children release sailboats
of paper and tape,

and when I ask for their names my voice
chokes on reeds.