He smuggled them in his pockets.
Easy— just a step into the house,
after digging in the yard.
There they stayed until
after he was fed and washed.
Then, he removed them
from their hidden space,
released them from
the lining and seams into
the dwindling bedroom light,
to snuggle under the warmth
of blanket and sheet.
They emerged from their
defenses, became themselves,
his beloveds, unfolding themselves
across the white sheet,
just like they did thousands
of moonlights ago, in the holds
of dark ships, adapting to new rooms,
to the cloth of dreams,
feeding until they bled and
dreams became nightmares,
teaching him not to put his
trust in dirt and fear.
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