What Shall I Feed It?

But there are white trumpets on the bushes,
sparrows on the washing line and overhead.
Ants moving mountains in leafy-dirt land,
foxes diving into the waste heap of branches
out back. Two mothers, my own and mother
of my mother that tell me about when I was
(raise hands) ::this height:: ::this width::
- children who show me just by being.

The floor is warm, the bed is sinkable into,
water spits at the turn of a hand, the fridge's
contents "Can be eaten both hot or cold" – choice.
Journeys line the walls, shelves, build columns
at either side of sleep, to hold up the dream pier.
Music snakes out of every crack, hole and window
(and mouth and eye and hug) Friends are around
the corner, they sacrifice daily, the search party
that comes back arms full from every expedition.

But still,
there is a flicker deep below the horizon of the reason
of the head, below the water of the water, beyond
the current of the current – never moved, always moved
around, over. It is not immediate, like fear. Not cold
like greed, nor as needful as it was in its first virgin year.
It has stretched into its own dress, travelled itself  long
enough until strong enough to push all in-to-shape, safe
enough to remain still, as ships sink above it.

It has hopes, like glittering doors. Arms like flying
carpets. It smiles like the frog kissed again and again
and again. Calls like a viola in space. Plans
like the Frisbee still curling. Its face is the sky,
when the clouds are streaks of milk running
through a navy straw so thick I am
wholly convinced there is no end to it,
that every point is the absolute centre of it.