Every night an otter came to me, thick billed — in the morning, I was employed — watched children — who were not my own — with my yielding heart, and at night, one bright-eyed otter on its back
watched me — from a distance — in its calm water, its body — a thrumming engine. Morning,
I rolled dough and cut — off with my teeth — the thick veins — which went down smooth as heat.
Yes, my night creature, facing the sky, floating — untethered. Gathering slick — oil in its fell.
Unblinking, while — I saw suns set and — rise and paid no mind. Each quiet visitation, I wanted
it more — when I, bone — tired, heaved and rested and — thought of bygone homes— the beast arrived, repelling — wet as it dived, intense in its motion. What do I want — faith — for. I do not
carry intention, only — the outstretched hand, reaching nightly. The otter — awake — sees me. Does it disturb me — no. Elsewhere, there is always someone departing.