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You have two children
down south, by the bay
they live with their mother
in a small and polite estate
I have no children
no sons of my own
no budding daughters
as far as I know

once in a while
they come into your house
a rampage of ribbon
trapped moths
and delighted tales
I'm thanking the gods
for the hidden champagne
thanking the gods
for the type of love we…

I just want that
to hold to your hand
stand at your door
called to your table

out by the border
and reeling a line
catching our meal
with that fisherman's gait
while I'm
perched at the curtains
or feeding the fire
thumbing through closets
too long is the wait
it's too...

switching the seasons
I come to your side
tilting my head
to the slope
of a steep incline
just open your arms
and gather me in
my brow
to your chest
just too long is the wait
it's too...

will I bare children
or reap ready-mades?
the tiniest versions
of your hands and my face
raise them in cities - compete for the light or
flee to the mountains
to study the air and what's left?

will they sleep still
in the crook of my arms
outgrow their coats
sprouting dangling legs
and throats
and then once in a while
they'll come into the house
a rampage of ribbon
a rampage

I just want that
to hold out my hands
gather them in
called to my table

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