I lie quiet among my possible suits,
feet to head, feet to head.
Blue, black, white, red.

Feelings seem like made-up things, 
though I know they’re not.   

Watching little Henry, six, scoop up blueberries
and shovel them into his mouth, possessed.
I’m so glad I brought blueberries—wish my kids

It's a wave, isn't it? Not a particle,
A fresh, cool wave so why am I flushed
and not washed?
Why dirtier than before?

May you sleep the most famous sleep: the night kind, one-third-of-your-whole-life-like, and if you panic in the peace, you are not dying. Breathing but not doing is not dying. 

The economical ikebana
of the lesser octopus
is disarming,

Red stripes around my ankles, tight
as sisters. We are maybe fourteen, priceless 
with gooseflesh.

The round white knob
on the dresser drawer—

Oh the baby cries. He howls and claws 
like a wrongly minor red wolf 
who doesn’t know his mother.    

Excluding genitalia,
What is a man?
A little boy all grown-up. A reverse neverland.