I dream of children and fences,
the moon and a dozen hoarse geese.
Green eyes follow me across the dawn:
you measure me, crouched, silent, absent.
In you I have a treasure smaller than skies,
tangible, and hot in the bed at night.
Small voices that are not yet born
haunt my hips: what will you ask of me,
before the end? And, in the end,
whose voice will still be heard?