fingerprints

Baby, 

we’re all lost.

Infants touching the womb,

creating fingerprints 

on april buds. 

beginnings and endings 

are rolled in 

the same joint.

cave in your cheeks 

and blow some o’s. 

the moonlight paints

these worn walls wonderfully 

and the roses are still drinking. 

Baby, 

we’re all terribly lost, 

that’s what makes it 

magic.