Even its glue, another sheet
lets go, turning its back
by leaning over, headfirst, a small splash

held till the burn marks show
--without a beach or the soft breast
your child is filling with feathers

with just before sleep --this page
on the way home, crawling in sand
and your hands still fastened

soaking in hot milk, carried
as if they were written down at night
one wearing through the other.