You are climbing out of the seat of my body;
rising as a small loaf, a scrap of wonder.
Stamped in wax with my ugly mug and running.
Surprised you are broken glass, a bit of face
or a toast-dropper of a fear. You are weighed with
a ton of my own past, packaged and disguised, the
torn tape of a reel-to-reel, endless and twisted.
No shit Sherlock, children are from their parents;
But they don`t know that. Forgive me.