Babysitter

July 10, 2011

The babysitter sits—as time, as breath.
As time, it could be a baby, a snail,
the dawn itself—and nothing you could kill—
as breath, the  grass around the child, a trail too thick
to notice…a tension, a poultice .

And so the discourse starts again. It’s just
the guts this time. I touch its skin.
And sun will light it all in full array.
The imperative tense begins.
The baby crawls; so much is made of clay.

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