Grazed Needs; Your Child Is Not Lost.

Tea for two and two to tease,
the take me home fingertips leading you to the trees
next to the patch of bluebells where the weeds ought to be existing;
this seems as good as place as any to tell you 
that nothing lasts,
not even foil from Kit Kats,
David Letterman late night
therapy
talk to me shows
of emotional appearances
from things you had forgotten:
an end of a bed runner for the cot you haven't used yet.

Their fingertips would've been just like yours,
I assure you that here from my chair.
Squeeze until you can feel the blood running from your hands
yelling
for you to stop-
pretend their hands are vice grips
hold 'em close
and keep them tight,
goodnight,
now dream.

     What we said in the wind was no longer worth it once the hurricane had hit.
     We said wherever it was down by those library steps
     we wouldn't fall come jim-jams or knee-high-water- and we didn't.
     Look where we stand on rented ground,
     contract laid flat on grey wire tidy away,
     file me until you can no longer see me,
     only feel me around you feet:
     it's from all those filled-sink streams we let our toes swim along
     which was an exercise in tolerance,
     swell swept and roughened.
     Sometimes you're quicker than the rain,
     other times you're treading water walking:
     you can wager rain against residue
     in hope the puddles won't stretch out into lakes,
     but if you get a nickel's worth wrong 
     than let me assure you that swimming will turn to swam,
     your life vest lost to your dam deep chest
     asleep chained to motorcycles,
     lost pier driven, first flight.
          On entering shattered dream of ice rink on lake, love,
          the first thing you must do is regain control of all breath.
          Do not think of swimming. Do not think of your legs and all they've ever learnt. Do not think you will survive, that only leads to hope and that does not float. 

You wake like this most mornings,
the desert island disc you would save 
reduced to a haiku and handshake,
'welcome to your morning. Do not worry,
your lost fingertip does not mean a no-go family,
believe me.'
And after its whisper remains in your mouth of a cave
ear hole to more sleep,
you witness strobe and rapid reflections
in the hue of C, Pantone middle 633.
Either side
in turquoise
pass terraced houses
framing lost family members
with the living standing on their shoulders
so fucking excited to see you you immediately question their motives,
the answer they give: more fucking love.
It's overwhelming and this is every morning
usually ending with the image of you in ASDA,
half six, unshaven and hungry,
your picture key-fob falling into the self service hammock below,
the image of the family you had in mind butter side up
just five years from now.

Hold on,
it's all or nothing,
all or grazed knees.