A Day of Conversation
My little girl hands
can't shake clean the wasted edge
of a line
then the curved ocean.
without having to try
to press away the sleep
from your wicker-woven eyelashes.
and two pale pillars
pointing like ivy grown so thick
that it covers; it shutters;
it mutters in a stranger still language
that they call
a/n: for MentallyMigrated (he knows what I mean.)