children are like fungus—
alive, that’s something
you can say about them.

growth is its own
value proposition.
love’s supposed
to be automatic
like transmission.

children get bigger when it rains,
get bigger when it’s hot,
get bigger through drought.
children follow the cube-square law;
their hearts slow as they grow.

children are like mice. they learn
to avoid the peanut-butter traps,
and drive you from your home.
you’re downtown saying,
I thought they were cute
at first. I can’t
go back.

a child is a step toward a corpse,
and a step away.
the dead wall us in our siege city.
we see more birds than ever.
a bird is a symbol and a speck.
overhead, the moon, a bone egg.
overhead, the moon, a bone pushed through
a blackened skin.

children are fossils—past
dug up and cast in new
exhibits, to be seen and read
on the accompanying card.

children are paper clips
made of gray goo, a while loop
that’s true by definition.

children are on the ground,
in the yard,
under the house,
over the fence. love’s supposed
to get lost while one counts
to ten, and make it easy
to be found. love’s supposed
to grow like children do. to come
in when the streetlights go. to
live in bodies out of bodies

automatic. spreading. eating.
in the walls. according to rules.
its own reaction.

a child is a step.
a step is an operation.
a move, a cut,
a cup, a trip,
an embarkation. a state.
I just love children,
says everyone. I just
love. contamination.
out of the cut, fluid.

a child is
a fatal fungus.
that’s
something.