the nothing
that’s out there
I keep
to myself.

my talk talks me down.
my kids laugh

in sweet tooth and funny bone.

I am not god’s father figure
but bring anyway
a nervous energy
to my own
birth scene.

it is pretty how one manages
to populate
a personal hell

and it is too pretty
to base an image
on the diary

soaked but drying

in a little house
with a kicked-in door.

some have a story and some think
the having
avoids
the generalizing
others do

to clear space
for space.

for a hobby I’d say
be stunned
by the baby
before
it inherits
separation

anxiety.

     once, beneath a storm, be a ghost.