Whitman knew he was a drop
of light that fell splashing against
the mud and landed upright a man
sprouting calves and hips, the sweet
fruit already ringing in his chest.
Imagine the orchestra of drops
pouring from God's face, long before
the throat became a smokestack,
long before this tenderness between us
was born, there was a mouth rising
from the ground to pool like some
birdbath under you, a drum
where your navel sits, and a hut
whose walls were bathed in lamplight.
Tonight you listen to our daughter sleep.
You flick her bedroom light off
because it's the one hard star
you are in charge of.
You lean in the doorway
pouring your blood
up to our daughter's throat
where it sits like some blanket
you keep even though she lives
on the outside of you now.
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