I kiss my daughter in her sleep. There are seagulls
on her forehead, kissing and kissing and kissing.
There will be no more good luck.
My daughter is Amelia Earhart and sweats all night long.
She dreams of an airplane stuffed with cotton.
She dreams that her body is warm.
Passengers stream by her, breaking into pieces.
They have sons and daughters that snap like fallen fruit.
The gas stations are burning them alive.
My daughter is falling backwards because she is laughing.
She says I have a twin.
I have a twin with arms so clean.
With a sheet of inhalers she was born on a tabletop.
She reads lips, and mouths the sound of crickets in her sleep.
Daughter, my pockets are full of powdered sugar.
My chest cavity swells with blown glass.
Any movement of ours exhausts the power lines.
We lose our footing. We slip out of superstitions:
Exit wheat penny. Exit glass bottle of orange juice.
Exit vespers. Exit east Japan.
Here are our barest sheen lights,
my daughter flying unpiloted.
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