the towers slobber light:
we have our clouds wet.
it is dark and it is late
you almost lost your way.

we have waited for you.
we have loved your arrival
your mirage of a father
spoke quietly to himself
as the deserted land
prays -the season
warmly licks our cheeks,
we give its tongue
a dirty look-
and hopes for a downpour.

your small arms
move around clockwise.
there is no one around.
i hold you and say your name
and your large eyes impart;
born in december,
dead from the start.

you lean your fine nose
on your mother's chest.
the doctor fills my ears
with recommendation.
i watch a butterfly
out the window,
i wish you would chase it
and i would dry your eyes
when it flew away.

a kiss on your newly formed
lips without a tone
without a cry
my unborn son,
i now leave you to die.