In sleep and half-sleep

(Which is most of time),

His nature shifts for me:

Stunted — unwolfed — sublime;

He is a thug, a plaything,

Or we never found him,

And he’s thin air,

Our hopefulness around him.

He crowds us jealously,

Snaps at our friend;

He pledges sacrifice

Clear to the end,

Then cowers at incursions.

As we goof around the boat,

He springs to rescue us, and flounders

In booties and a coat.

Who is this idiot?

And yet the mission

He heads against our tears —

Whose was this vision?

Who paid the price

To rescue him, who cast

The dice against

His worthlessness at last?

Who teased and humanized him

With that name?

He keeps it, though —

The one with which he came.