These are my dooms:
 
Other and I, rescued 
from rummage, were nested
among her socks and scarves.

Downy and dexterous,
I held her pen
when she wrote in the park.

Twice I was lost:
once at the Doctor’s,
then at the checkout
as she fumbled for change.

She back-tracked,
found me, and held us,
Other and me,
in prayer position.

Now he is lost.
Under a wedge of the bank door,
he revolves, revolves,
and she doesn’t know.

Her hand is cold. She doesn’t go
to the park. Words dissolve
like eggs in her womb.

They locked the bank for the night
and wrenched him from the door
in shreds.

When she knows he’s gone,
she’ll throw me away,
as, in some countries, 
they throw away widows.
                        

Consider the whale:
If she nods, she drowns.
Half of her brain rests.
The other counts
while her lungs
get dense with carbon.
 
When gallons of singing, surrounding
green fail her, alert cells say: Surface.
Expel this stuff. Take on a ton
of air. In a huff, she does, dives, falls
half-awake, and the renewed brain
takes a turn.
 
Think of your spared 
expense. Sleep. Salt
mingles with forgetful river-water.
In damp caverns
winds exchange themselves
again and again.