82.

a little pile of unsaid things scatters
around my feet and I pick them
up -- I make a little house
of them, fashion little chairs and little
bedspreads, fill the walls with
little wall hangings with little words
along the edges (all the little
 secrets I keep inside my
 little head)

and I am sure you see the little
lines along my forehead and you
read the little poems they make
about my little sadness --

I'll bet I look a little like a
listener, when really I am holding little
consonants and little vowels beneath
my tongue, and they are waiting
for the perfect time to peek
their little heads out from
between my little
lips

and all the while you are tracing little
circles with your little nose across
my cheeks, and I feel littler beneath
the bigness of you

(the truth, you
 see, is I have
 only grown a very little
 bit since I was
 little)