It is a joy to be hidden, a disaster not to be found.
—D. W. Winnicott

Like everything
alive, you want
to grow. Slow bolt
nested, fed by
blood and breath. Stealth
saved you once. We
both have known that
distinct joy, that
disaster. Shy
occupier,
I spy and must
expose you now,
though it means we
both are mortal.