My other name would be
far away or gone to the moon.
I would be leaves falling—
the sky at sunset.

My heart would be neat
as a clock, or a hat
on its hook—I would be nothing
but flat horizon,

or something that would not float,
a stone dropping
through waters, rain—
cloud to ground.

How long would I remain
at the bottom of the lake?
I might stay there
forever.