1,5

traced by a finger on a bedroom wall
listening to an othersea ripple inside a piano

a thread from open ceilings
pull down more and more pairs of baby shoes,
dotting the skies at night are
trails of lessons arriving to be born,
the calendar says we've been picking up-tied laces,
wrapping our fingers in them and walking the air.
washing lines have fallen under the light of
so many pairs
that our laundry has heaped onto a comma
between us.
you have to admit though,
it's not the pile it used to be - 
what with all our upgrowing
we've outgrown many of them

a little pause for breathing

1,5
because a full stop doesn't flutter in the wind
coming from the lips of the other earthface,
because it doesn't have a dripping coat
hanging from the line to dry

. . .

ladybug trails ready to evaporate;
behind us is dry and drying concrete,
fields covered in wildly growing grass

ahead, the earth's a roiling something
that we just haven't found yet
that we may need something other than baby shoes
to reach

now, we lift from the comma to each other's eyes
and we see ourselves a little bit floating.