We leave in the morning and the world begins
cold. There’s a forest past the barbed fence
full of deer. Some deer sleep on the side of the road
for the rest of their lives. The word deer. The word dead.
Wave bye-bye to every passing thing. Wave bye-bye
through the daycare window. Some things make us cry
no matter what. Teachers will tend the wilt of you
around their ankles. How a body tangles so easily
in the wire of another. Anyone will call you dear. To be held
by the nearest embrace that will have you. This is called a day.
People wake in the newness of each and call it good.
When the birds start singing it’s time to get up.
Sometimes the sun is lying beside you at the end
of a dream. Sometimes it hurts to even open your eyes.

Samuel Piccone