Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Child Anatomy

Baby, your head is transparent

I can see the machinations

And us,

Twisted round your tiny fingers.

In the soft light of the afternoon

Your talcum smeared chest heaves

With each gentle parting of your lips

That utter lie

Upon lie.


Who never cries when no one is looking

Hymns in church in little frocks.

1 comment:

Shalmi said...

I'm not sure if this would qualify as a conceit, but it's ingenious enough to confuse feeling.