babies

their talking wraps me in

bubble

wrap,

bubble-wrap.

the air is in it

so I do die after all wrapped in it.

all that's in it

is the air, a different

arrangement,

a different arrangement of air.

compartmentalized

airy

plastic,

airy plastic

drawn from their lungs

like a pipe snake from

a garbage disposal

filled with rotting

things,

with rot.

family talk

the things

rich babies

float

in bubbles

over diamond mines,

that is,

diamond land-mines,

from smacking lips

the spit

bubbles,
spit bubbles

ooze skyward

poisonous

to rivers where

some Sundays

we'd escape from papa

to spear

the silt

with twigs.