To an Imaginary Child
If I believed,
I'd say that God made me
both queer and asocial
to stop me making you.
I'd only be half-joking, too.
Wrapped in myself,
and all of my anxieties,
I know that love is not enough.
And furthermore not an excuse.
The ties of endurance fray loose.
The baby in the barn
is just, in truth, an empty crib
with wind against its crude supports.
I'll never give you name, or form.
And leave you in the light deformed.