In the belly of a bird
worming hopes twist, unheard, wants
are as missiles, lashing out across oceans,
a ripe fruit speaks of endings, then decays,
is out of sight – for that’s
prophets for you, croaking out visions
then rotting with a swift breeze.

Ages ago I was an embryo, without knowledge,
without anything, but a need to grow.
And as Titans of Industry crashed, clanged,
and smoked, I once was so small
I could fit all myself upon the nib of a pen.

Now I’ve wings, now I’ve problems and pains,
scars that litter my continent,
fissures that creak wider with the days,
lone lights, shrinking through the dark,
crinkling my worn hands around stars,
and I mingle with evil.    

Diaphragms are the mammalian way,
as are babes born whole, and dumped
into the world.

Birth, is the cornerstone of my doubt.
I’ll toss Mercury’s caduceus to the dogs.
Labor and agonize
over the riddles of gods, while
prostrating, eating myself downward
into the tomb.