For now,

I have a bed where I stay, whenever I can.

The clock has a number.

Your small hand would have been in mine,

longer fingers than the week before,

a new dexterity,

a new word,

a new way of playing an old game,

a new way to reach the counter,

a new way of knowing what day it is.

The tumbling & unstoppable 

perfection of your little being. 

The clock has a new number. 

For now, I have this day of air to pin

at the wheel of my heavy, heavy heart, 

the day becomes clay becomes slip, the air I breathe in, 

I breathe out, still nothing to show,

for all these hours won’t make you 

keep your shape, sweet angel,

this, is how it goes, for now.