The plane is in a holding pattern. Here in fault
land we are encircled but not overwhelmed:
as on a switchboard, a flow diagram
spotted with gouts of ink. You are the spit
of your father, says the fable. Your mother
nods, bows out, bundles her brown teat
into its silver pouch. Frisk and slouch,
come on, come on now, there is always new
ground to be eroded. Uncertain yet.
Knowing only the one room, the walls
even of that a blur, light edging
eye-catchingly around the curtains,
you bring an extra dimension. You still
kick as though in the womb. The air
trembles at your lips.
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