from behind your bedroom door
in the dark of this too early morning
hooting, hissing, drumming the wall
with your heels, rolling
all your words come now:
dog. daddy. cracker. ball.
sounds we attached to things, and that you accept
air: just stuff we made up. not like before
when you would blow your wet speech
bubbles of curdled milk, painting
sleeves, pillows, her neck, everything
foamy white, like some insane depression-era comic
about a frustrated mime:
"speak up kid!"
"lettuces? why din't ya' say so?"