And in the middle of this, there are lines
drawn in chewed-paper crayons and apple-red lipstick,
in pencils with metal eraser bands sharpened and cruel,
in the sand on the sidewalk outside a long-outgrown day care’s fenced playground
with a stick, dragged behind
carelessly
In the cracks of the mirrors, the anger-creased palms,
the wrinkles that make up the maps to our eyes
the gaps in the boards on the falling-down porch
the seams in the grass growing up
from below
and from way up above, where we sit
idly watching
the wind shape the fields and the branches like water,
the lines come together to make up the letters
that scribble the words
to the story we wrote.