was a misapprehension
that would not go away,
a bright fabric bleached to nothing
then by light
restored.
Was their many tales,
their hands, the only
means by which they were allowed
to touch. Depth
of careworn, care, the
confusion of love. Their
ruined limbs blackened with frostbite,
the cysts that brought, at least, color
to their faces. God,
their gestures. God among them,
the surreptitious squeeze
of fingers, blown
kisses, the innocent dreaming
what it would be to be grown up:
To have clean socks. To be God.
To have a birthday.