and roses in fairytales, how even
the pierce of your stare is a star.
You my child, have been puppies, tigers,
bees, snakes, and a praying mantis. You
say, today's animal: "sickly Victorian boy."
So pearlescent with scattered energy
stay stationed in understories of care
and humming to the surface, beyond
yes--the press of your face on my shoulder
but holding fast like the ink-paint-print-stain
koans growing on your arms for years.