I lift baby onto my back.  baby is twenty nine years of outsider atmosphere.  baby swallows and my stomach becomes the pecking in my stomach.  baby is distracted by the attention eternity demands.  baby drops and my mind enters a snowball disappearing centermost of a dark summer pond.  baby’s mother rafts workaholic to where work suffers to invent for the harmless

today this trap door
for an unfinished
fly.