Becoming More


Something about falling down
makes him seem rounder,
darker, smaller standing up
in my hands. Whistling
on my mouth. He's singing,
he's swimming. Don't fall down,
I ask him but he tumbles
rolling and sliding in
my wind, air of a whistle.
Blonde on carpet, on wood,
through windows, watching him
get smaller, becoming more
and more like a moment
to keep and eat. I am swallowing
until finally he speaks
to pull me down, to fall down.
I use my hands to sing
the smell on his skin. Such a small face,
so simple to hold on one's floor.