you are what you will give away

my daughters
how real they are to me
with scrawls on scrap paper
they draw of myself and themselves
grinning clear across waxed line oval faces

and many other fantastical things
requiring extensive explanation

in this lack of cumbrance
they riffle past numb undergrowth
straight to where I feel things right

that part that can be given away
scrawls across other lives
as sure as wake from the plunk of prow
spreads on the glass of lake