infinite blocks pushing the pram of you, marking
fine-veined & calyxed things as if to call each

quince to fruiting with my recognition, mouthing
name after name—still, yours I need to learn so

tell me sweet girl, how to greet you—since
my mamma doesn’t believe in you or in my ability

to bear another being—I try to tell her
I have miles, marathons, behind me, ahead—

that I am far from done & will run to the ends
of service roads; steady, then slow over potted

ramps, lean for the merge in curlicues, will bow
convex to interstates, that no state can wreck an all-out

love—she says I am in vain