Poem you come out unformed as me,
with no bones you plop onto the ground
eyeless and bare, hardly alive.
And what is form, but a language others assign to us for filing purposes?
And what are we beyond our sensations,
and can we be without memory,
as the most lowly form of life?
Poem you are as crude as a bi-valve on ice.
I cannot prize you from your shell, we both prefer the dark.
Let me feel the hot yolk on my tongue,
the calm of the morning sun
that I might imbue the same upon you.