the poems of children decorate the cradle [of civilization]. We settle inside. All rest assured
of only one championed clarity – that there is love
here – when we are afraid, deep breaths guide us through the fibers of our lungs, commit
us to the whisper in their rattle, the bowling over of [hesitation] vocal chords stretched thin then
for meaning, with the most human claw; the oxygen in the brain
giving back its best self; its byproducts, its questions, its carbon, its dioxide;
Why does one leave the cradle? What [of us] runs away?
Why does one move [dodge, come through, overcome, come over]? Where
does one find strength [in the moment]? What is the cradle? What
do we cradle? And searching through
our tattered homes, what plows into the psyche? [and through our roots]
What sows instinct? What sings [so absolutely] of who we wholly, only are?