Object of Desire

Remember its pulse
on the salt-swollen porch,
both body and gash,

that starfish
you rescued, stranded
when found

on the winter beach,
a hand pantomiming
klepto-

mania: Stop, thief!
Slick, warm, red clot,
who knew what it meant

by living. It should have turned
hard, into ornament,
but stayed wet, like guilt.