Every Room is a Sonnet

Every day I wake to the little my lips can do.
Who is the father of tongues, I require him;
who is the father of mouths?
My lips are parted waters forever. Aren’t they the wings

of a moa— aren’t they thunderbolts rubbing
one another? It’s hard to be alone on 4th Avenue.
My room came with two keys. The windows
                         catch the sun and then let it go.
                         And the feet of men and women
                         walking in rooms above me

                         speak to me. Yesterday, I dreamt twelve times–
in one, my father slept in my arms.

I don't remember the words, but I sang to him.
I remember he kissed my hands.