Rider

The children were ships.
Bombs took them kids out.
So we made a movie.
Where fish hid inside men.
Or alphabet language.

After everyone died,
The quiet turned into animals.
And they collected keys.
Because a span makes new ones.
Crossed like a loose lamb.

Some girls, they say
are composed of fingers. Others
Of the hairs the streams or lakes lose.
I have a girl inside my tooth.
She rides a cricket to the moon.