baby

fighting the helpful feeding, 

as you batter against the window, 

I can't hear a thing you're saying,

I cannot feel the weight of your hand,

you are a cut away before a big reveal,

you are a throw back to a complete circle,

so uncomplicated, lapping at your own shore,

rings of incandescence, like an endless sleep, 

I can't hear a thing you're saying,

I cannot feel my feet sink in sand,

and, as though I'm being cradled lower and lower,

and, or, as if you could be an anchoring influence,

you are the keeper, holding me by the ankle,

you are dipping me into the river,

which returns to its own source, 

lapping at its own shores, 

welling up a little,

 trickling from its open mouth,

stuck up in a high chair,

fighting the helpful feeding.