I is the glance. I never finding stars. Small
milky planets, this reaching for Mom.

Themselves came down for breakfast. I does slept
a green sleep. I is not returned to afternoon.

A discovery for home be in my microscope.
Dad table-sighed: Toast? Insert and kick it under. We is an animal.

When dawn sat still, it was some toasted material. We felt him
pruning us at slumber. I is us, unless us is a nebula,

then I is stars and Dad and Mom is good for little arms, push
pushing down the street. I wears a glittering hat.

So blew us on this milky road, a root in slow-buttered
soil. Clean this tail and drive us distant on.