This is how my daughter draws the night as her mind fills with broken glass. A handful of explosions and a lonely fishhook. There’s a mutant figure hunched outside the trapezoid that represents our house. I ask and she tells me, that’s you. I’ve been writing this poem for several years. Could it be that it is part of me? I usually try not to blink but I am tired with wonder. She folded me into shards with sleep. The radical of a star, implying that its edges are two-dimensional. Yellow as shark teeth. I want to know more about the beginning, why on this night it was impossible to see flesh. Could it be that my eye is a tooth? It’s called defamiliarization. When your abstraction falls out of the heavens and into a canopy. When you nurse it back to health with ice cream. I want to live just outside your window, but my breathing is so loud. I’m something like your figure. Could it be that I’m an angel?