33. Fifty, for D

A herd of dust motes

is squeaking in sunlight

bars thrown across the room,

awakening all the sharp edges

of hard winter sun.

My bowels are weeping for you

for your hopeless hands 

married to your child

with webs of flesh.

He is not yours to keep.

Sunlight groans

across our days then

is gone,

each dust mote dancing

an individual samba.