We have learned over the past eight months that parenthood is not for us.

Say it's urgent, when the flowers have died from a change in the weather.
We have learned, over the past eight months, spouting nectar from the phone
That parenthood is not for us. And we are not the sort to be benefactors.
Tomorrow, on the decade, dawn birds will sing aside the bedroom window,

Reminisce in disposables, our eight months of spitting nectar under the phone.
There is no estimating the number of animals in it, this, our nurturing enterprise.
Tomorrow, on the decade, dawn birds will sing aside our bedroom window,

Winter constellations, steaming traces of afterbirth waft in from the barn window—

And mere labor was not enough for a flight animal, enclosed in the enterprise

As beautiful as surgical staples. With barbed wire, I had wanted all the more tightly
To rein you. Alas, these inexorable constellations. One foreleg advanced over a windowsill
In a vaulting pose—belonging to no one—just like a woman, and the one in front of me,

My successor. An object to be possessed, a porcelain or polymer doll once tightly
Held with the bangs smoothed, lives afterwards when playtime is done.You dully

Spit into the napkin, instead of pushing away the plate, and I, the one in front of me--
Lie awake in the exhaustive flow of keeping on, before the plate glass break of dawn.

The feeling beyond the doll kept from you, screaming alone in a crib—Your teeth dully

Indicate—White prayer beads or, a bandolier rattling through the room of its benefactors.

This lie we had, in order to get an exhaustive flow keeping with the break of dawn,
Refracted through this vase of flowers, that would have died following a change in the weather.