The baby is an old man

clamming, no shirt on in

the furtive sea and January breeze.

A fist

of locks,

rosy and blonde in

his hand. Overhead,

the gabble of the raptors,

prostrated on their stability,

there can be none.

White wicker threading

on fingers. I age like an evergreen

and grow,

in his room,

the turpentine daze,

rising from his blank, the

Narcissus rays.

I am the bone,

birthed in your dream,

pricked wishbone,

snapping in the sector,

almost your baby.