When the world is newborn,                     

every hour is the most important

hour of your life.

 

I wept like a man weeps

at the actual end.

 

Leaves were crisp and temporary

like dollar bills

beneath my dress.

 

I was going to build the world

but this time not of shame. 

 

Something grand or

minuscule as ovum;

 

or I would tie a cord tight, as tight

as I could,

 

around my waist

until it was a racetrack.

 

                        Baby,

no one asked me,

                        what will you become?

           

Everything eroding always.

Everything assailable. 

 

Somewhere bright sun groped

rows of linen cover-ups.

 

Hot melt. Glass plates formed

at the bottom of the trench

 

out of near-human resilience.

Goddamnit,

 

I begged: remain

the scalding, stubborn fluid.