I tumble forth into the world.
From a womb-vessel wrought,
I sat and thought
near the edges of time
till the moment came to ruin my
oblique heaven.
Old doctor, with gnarled hands and yellow skin, you
rip me like giblets from this holy place.
You slap me on the counter-top scale,
wrap me in wax-paper swaddling, and
hand me over,
choking on birth-matter.
My manger is a dim world.
Somewhere, there is a mother sobbing as a
planet rises through the clouds.
Time runs in spirals through the dust.
There is a quiet,
awkward solitude.
Doctor, why do you wear the ape-mask
while summoning dead gods back to earth?
