nine-for-a-kiss:

I found the most unsettling poem I must have written as a very young teenager. It sounds like some kind of invocation.

Half past twelve is underwater
east and west and north and south
one goes over and one goes under
one is a hungry mouth.

 She is the world and she is the window
the starlight and the bramble wreath
one is a carp and one is a minnow
one is nothing but teeth.

The wind is soft and the water’s shallow
and what has been will never be;
hands of stone or hands of tallow,
we will find them. One-two-three.