This morning, husband,
you lay beneath the window and dreamed of many people
watching you sleep through that window, while
this overdue boy is still

and quiet inside me. I tell you, like a dog who's snuck muddy onto the bed,
hopes he won't be noticed so he can stay
a little while longer.
Now the halo is written within me, I wake with those words. Then, indeed,

someone's bucking hay within me—my moon, full of mangers—
fontanel and temple.
His delicate footing is the trace of two white kites.