From a winedark table I see a still-bald tree top, a lung.
Snakes and Ladders and your many cards, my fifty
seven month companion. I had thought, during the
labouring, that I was going away from the world,
leaving your siblings. You made a star of me in that
triangle, the consultant at my back, your father’s arms
the masts I clung to, and I a ship in full sail. Up from
the hold you came, all vernix and April fury. But there
has been no betrayal, and I am no ship. We are on land,
another branch; you grow carefree, shuck off rain, snow,
and we are fractal, we are four years fractal.