Build three houses in a row
take one of them for the purpose of tonight's
bed-time tale
how the whale floats
overhead in the dim room
to make for a song, your vocal cords don't sing
cook enough meals to feed the same people
who are trying to cook for themselves
and failing at things that do not burn
live and fleshy, little hands
tiny fingers that insert themselves
into your palms
without realization, us,
damen, vessels of birth
guards to the doors of bedrooms
hiders of monsters, dealers with details
organizers, feeders, walkers, joggers
watchful eyes, ears, mouths that kiss
without telling, that sow,
appreciation; disregarded, this sense
of transformation, like pillars
damens, holder of earth
able to sleep on an air mattress and feed
on air, yet walk with the pride of nations
between two shoulders
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