James Ineich: A Recursion of Babies

First, a bed made of sleep. Then, rubied crowns stacked into kings or cracked into
Squires: horses for chivalrous swords which doubled as rescue-worthy maidens.

The moon was one lip which kissed the black–lovers congealed in raw infinities of
covert sexual tryst. At last there were babies, collages of babies, logjams of babies.
Dawns were

eclipses of baby. Morning was the dark bloom of flowers with petal of baby. Packs of wet
nurses with babies for breasts howled baby in distant baby forests. People climbed

mountains of baby and descended deep chasms of baby. The town crier was a baby’s
head weeping in deep baby shame. Judges were learned babies’ heads in white wigs
of smaller

babies’ heads. Toymakers were towers of soft baby skin, and their tools were calibrated
amalgams of precision baby finger. Toy stores dangled from toy store mobiles and filled

with toy babies playing their toy toys: train sets crafted from locomotive collisions, cap
guns carved from bullet wounds, teddy bears stuffed with live bears.

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