Monday, March 23, 2015

Mirror Image

The day you were born -
small homunculus
already in charge - 
never spoke or took in small
affections or knew how to cry.

Then yesterday
a man of soul
read poems that made you

hear with baby ears.  
I saw your face
grow tender into innocence.

Is some fierce part of me in you, 

that brash, profane, fuck-me
self turned tender, sentimental?

No comments: