Conscious

November 5, 2017

Conscious

The new baby grasps for the honey suckle breast

of his mother,

swatting through heavy, blanketing air.

All the baby knows is that he may soon reach

right;

she will be there.

Yet, even as I look on,

I remember nothing of child’s innocence;

I know not of anything that could be there

as I scrunch my fingers into my palm

and branch out my limbs.

 

Where did the flowers go?

It is no matter;

tongue coated in sweet curiosity, still.

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