Toward Morning

Thwap thwap thwap
the tiny feet find their
way to my breath

in the ink of the night
and uncurled from my dream
I carry the frightened boy back

to his bed where what
is real is more real than
when we’re awake;

his small slender back
curls against my warm chest
and dark is dark and each

breath unfolds into the next
and into the next, and I hold him
as so much slips away.

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