You of them all searched into our
eyes soon after birth, nose
pressed to nose, transfixed. That
was the beginning; now I gathering
up your discards on the steep
slope of your day (sandal
worn with leaning forward small
skewed sweater) see you laboring on behind
the others. Searching. Only
in the bath in a split-off
moment of shared gaiety no words
profoundly uttered, the tender
bowed back treed with
ribs restful under my warm soapy
hand, do you pause. For
what are you searching little
one how
do you know it is lost?