Artwork by Jane Corrigan.

is about you: not about your father who mildly streams you
down your years. I pretend a knowing of your skin or,
beneath it, the wells of yourself, over the time it took
you here. Where and who do I go with without  
myself? The long widths of you across a year of  
myself near you—shuttered now by another mind—
I am in need of me.