Those visits home, the way the young
come back and still follow you around
or find you on the bed reading
or writing, to lie down at an angle or

sit cross-legged. No secret between you,
not even trouble quite though
it isn't ordinary, the way the world unravels
through them: what he said, what she

never, who traveled where, that things—
how exactly—splinter and break
and cut. It trails off then. Both of you,
which one to speak but thinking

better of it. And the book is just a prop,
what you were writing perfectly weightless
in this silence. Child, oh fully no longer,
out there tangling, untangling.