this, that, our bodies as they enter spring.

i slept thryough with a mallet bellow. echode, it,
th'primeary re-sun-sun-sun sun-sun-sun son.

my son. in my hands, while the daylight dies,
the turn of your hip begins to bubble and you

gasp-p-p p-p-p "ah" punctuated and preseeding
the schadhoed sounds that fold and fold and fold...

like us, now, in this now that--now--we are
creeading between our pupilps in this noigwht

not two--far, a weight--at the horizon, leyeing
beneath a palm, leafing in the breeze like a book

in a heavy wind that shatters the shutters, you
are all eyes and still below the covers.

four hours, eyes weighted in some st-st-st
stutter that st-st-stuttered for all my memboreyd