I promise to hold it tight,
tuck it into my bra
like money or Kleenex,
warm its little words
against my breasts
as once I held a baby
and found a way to sustain
the impossible skull,
wondered at the fontanel
beating a pulse
(tic toc late after the noon hour)—
an operatic scuffle of Brecht figures
lamenting the State,
not unlike this morning
of chronic pain given
by god knows what devil
into my veined hands.