Delicate words,
whose fragile bodies expand
no larger than my teeth,
the greatest at most the size
of a small child's finger,
lie on their bellies, on my page,
asleep.
Mother words and Father words
like Worry and Pension and
Infidelity have gone for the night
to a dinner party with the
unattractive adjectives,
wearing tuxedos and punctuation.
And I am left,
as I often am,
with newborn slumbering phrases.
'Let me babysit your mind'
I might say.
'Let me wear your verbs like
rainboots or a christmas sweater'
I might say.
Quiet now, Quiet now,
for we all know too well
how waking up to
unfamiliar house guests is
as unsettling as
too much margin space.
Anne Georgia Greenberg
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-nursery-of-a-page/
