THOSE CELLS QUICKLY divide, divining toward the light, from water to air. We're impersonal at best, open. I don't believe in solidity, angling for a bottom line—bottom feeders. Pierced by vertical spikes, we are related. The air moves through the window. Prepare for departure in the mundane domesticity of every day. Blinking, water in eyes, given to the buzzing yellow bath toy. He chases it, water on green tile. Sits on it, the spray long on the side of the tub.
occasioned
from hushed ranges
to find a place
among people
family in a light we can't
grasp our
selves going back
out never
fails.
Ten p.m. Drain tub. Wrap him in a frog towel. Wait for her to come home, the radiant black stone inside her.