It’s my birthday, you wrote. Send me a poem. And I did. I would have anyway, holding you in place like some bright fairy, hand feeding you poem after poem. Wondering when you might grow tired. Today you surprised me by returning me one of your own and, I so wanted to dip my pen in that liquid luminosity and play with those words. As I read, it split into a half dozen children, reformed, and grew…but…that sounds so sexual. Yet what I really wanted, taking liberties with one another’s poems, was probably much more intimate than any bed thing.