We think we’ve seen it all: the stars

dying in the butterfly nebula, the milky

stains on the child’s lip when she washes

the cookie down, the strange sea cucumber

on a National Geographic feature. The lady

bugs in the corner of the room don’t bite

us in our sleep. One day, we discover the stars

aren’t all that’s dying. The cookies aren’t

the only secrets in the child’s mouth. In anger,

we throw words and miss the poems.

Our pictures forget the sun. Just because

we have fingertips. We don’t always touch.