I know I know I know.
I know I still need those same
infantile changes—
the warm
and soft and
wet sort of premonitions—which I fear the most.
But I am not worried
I am not worried
I am not worried—I lie
all night, while I
sleep and
dream of being
born-
again, so buoyant-
and easily—somewhere cool cool cool,
cock-crowing, off
on that pale last star glimmering
in the tender aurora of a new morning
as—the insouciant future
of this miserably
persistent family.
