Woven fingers,
Hair so normal but its food for my peace,
So delicate it’s golden spiderwebs,
Little boy touching the big world,
Hands stuck in red gone rust clay,
His lips forgetting the words help,
One day the permanent ink of sister tasting like,
Peaches and salt,
Will dissolve into the abyss.
Forgotten in the last of the tub water chilled enough to drown.
But blue enough to
S W I M