The hats tell us where we end up,
a myth of hair. I am trying to bring flowers
to the hospital equipment.
How machines whimper
without air. How birth
is an airplane window
& forests below. A lake
full of manuscript pages.
And so much alive
this poem will never see.
I don’t trust the moon
wrapped in tin foil. The clattering
of line cooks, quick hands
in back of house light. The girl
who always brought a cat
figurine to work. A newborn
making a fist is still a fist.
