A Fisherman's Knot

My wrists were zip-tied together like broccoli stems.
I lived through days nightly;
the film negative of an old tree,
but I was moored to you.

I was wide, starred, and away,
a smirking kabuki face, a pigeon, a man.
You sat still by your window,
but I was moored to you.

There were colors worming into me,
photons moving, paradoxically bipolar,
and pacifistic neutrons burning their draft notices,
but I was moored to you.

I eased my eyeballs out, gingerly,
and showed them to all who wanted.
I stored them in salt water at night
and slept with the lights on, but what did it matter,
for I was moored to you.

There were wars, and rumors of rumors,
and bitterness in the chocolate. You,
you were bread, and we agreed to disagree,
but I was moored to you.

I made another signal fire.
Violins all smell the same
when burned,
but I was moored to you.

The wavelets turned me slowly and I saw you.
I hadn't before. I was moored to you. The snow
confettied us, and it fell on your beard. I still remember that.
I was moored to you.