My giant has faded from my senses,
the sound of his music dims onshore
as my ship slips from its harbor.
The months have made quick work
of all six feet four of him.
There is less and less.
I see right through him,
an X-ray, curved ribs and behind them
the hillside.
I must not lose him like this.
I must stay awake and think of him,
his grin, the way he booms around the room.
I must say his name each day,
his picture must hang in every room.
I must pull the hairs from his brush.
I must write about him every day.
There is no other way.
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