I could trace an outline of you, daughter;
for new feet, to my left.

My hands could help hold you in place - no jumping - and then I could trace a perfect out line of you both;

of my line, of sight.

I could draw you both in eggplantwhite; but better with the yellowredautmun hues of that tree from the small stare; a way with pink and light perfect-brown for skin. I could make sway in a way that that tree between this house and the next never dreams.

I could make the cigarettes I smoke with the door this far a jar explode in gentle yellow-rain that would make a bath, not a shower. I could carve ladders in the running mountains that well-up, sometimes.

I could park on thin shoulder; make pause;

draw teeth to the back of a neck;

make malleable this, same this;

this October mourning less so.

I could fold the picture - the tracing, sure - into the palm of my right
hand. I could carry it, round. I could make it watch as spiders as notepads flutter and scream;

die brazenly as I toss them absently from your bedroom window.

I could illustrate your face as surprise turns to contemplation, and back and forth again. I could make my self clear on this paper, or someother we could find someplaceelse.

I could make the texture of the sound; in hear a prayer-book.

I could dig a fine red band to keep it closed; and glue to spine. I could
ear and mark some random-false passage - maybe more than just one - for when this is this again.

I could write the notes on the outside, my left hand;

like they were phone numbers, or names or some time.

I could wash so much
off with soap, some weight.

I could bite at the elastic

- draw string - that separates me from this moon tonight.

I could tear it in too with my hands.

All your witches sparrows; this blanket a bed;
these hands an arm;
this irony a motor;
this feat, some ship.

I could lift up this house and see what is under, near-

trace it.

I could tie downmatch sticks; draw blood until, man; it bled off this page.

I could make it all a riddle,
a wash of dirty tricks.

I could trace you too at 17;
detail slowly with the right pencil.

I could make new names for us all. Cuchulian, for me,

maybe help you with yours;
I could kick you the morning if you need it.