Breeding in a subconscious cauldron
They puff up like puris,
Stirred by the blackness of night.
They rise up like mute babies
Made of smoke.
They stumble, fall, rise, clap, sob.
I huddle them near to my heart-
Where the milk is,
And sleep over them.

In the morning
They are tattooed
All over me.
I try to soap them away
With coffee.