And so it took shape, & from what.
True, a voice wept for you
while singing, from the year behind you.
From your crib.
Almost, you became used to it,
& the laws of blood transmitting
from thin skins of strong, troubled wrists.
Morning like a scab.
Wind wrests a fallen paper by the nape,
twists as if it held your name inside.
The eternal is not interrupted by this
even as you cup it in your fists.