Five 5

Can we watch the baby
fight sleep and not be
somewhat disgusted
when the whites
of his eyes flit at the edge
of each eyelid, when
his pupils drift and roll back
into that growing black
pond of sleep? How
can we be trusted to keep
something so entirely fragile
intact? If I stare down at that black
pond, I’ll see my body sinking
beneath and at the surface, in that
rippling reflection, I’ll find you
wearing my sweater back home.

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