How is it

that even someone
that clings to broken toys
with a mix of
nostalgia and remorse
that cradles a chinadoll
whose chipped fingers slip through flesh
to the infantile heart at the center of
neurons
Could still
be held in the cradle of arms
owned by someone whose own skin
wields their own patterns of 'horse play'
And brazenly still
Refuses to let go
Of such an uncoordinated mammal
That yearns for a taste
Of both nothing and more
Such as myself