the thin whistle

and pea soup

drilling like a huge wasp

over the children’s supernaturalness

and early hurt.

i dreamt you

were tiny on the arm

of a chair, hair

pumped out like smoke

and had a bearing, though

the sun soon burned you out, right

happily like an ant into null

through the glass.

the heaviness is always

illusory- i am nothing and

soon to pass,

the morning

blows back/forth on the line

and love is a black

whole