I wish to see you till the cows come home.
I don't stand for line and white curls even if I
know you will grow up fully-fledged in my arms.
I mean the feelers of tots, desquamated crèche laps—
to know the charming kindliness of nippers' lungful of air,
the question mark of budding bag of bones. What we
could have gone in with, the codes of abecedarian play,
sniggering through vapours of bond and shale powder, I
feel like clambering into your crust every night, sense
your pocks as my delicate timepiece as in a while,
together, we evolve, fervour putting up. I want to know
you till the cows come home, feel your disquieting
vigour as my own when we crossed the threshold
of this terrene alongside, soaked in the balmy love
of our forbearer’s innermost. I want to put my feelers
on your lips, the squash of your new ivories touching
my special little one skin, the slash of crimson lips aching
in the same radiance. I want to discern you ceaselessly
cradle each other from soft newborn curls through the young
rigidity and back to the silky-smooth drift of old time,
to believe you till the cows come home.
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