I dreamt there was a fire in the study and I tried to put it out and she called me
a fool saying save the fire and save the books; the child.

We take up our quarrel with the idea that birth is some elegy sung to the page—
(scenario in which there’s something in your hands as you run from
the burning apartment.
You make your decisions and insurance will cover the rest).

What do we move on with? The question’s our way of avoiding do we
have children or do we write books?

We discover a construct—let us name it apparatus—like trust—containing
each scenario—it cries out at times when we lend our weight to it.

In the novel, the structure warms our approach—the ballast bobbing like a body
full of pulled air; a yaw on the water and smiling.

Child, to know it only as a word—. Fear of a lump like a dog nosing its way out
from beneath a blanket. Of asking is there a delight
that comes after that delight
that comes with water escaping the eyes?