I dreamed I had a child,
and even in the dream
I saw it was my life,
and it was an idiot,
and I ran away.
But it always crept
onto my lap again,
clutched at my clothes.
Until I thought,
if I could kiss it,
whatever in it was my own,
perhaps I could sleep.
And I bent to it's broken face,
and it was horrible . . . .
but I kissed it.
I think one must
finally take one's life
in one's arms . . . .
