I can’t remember being born, and no one else can remember it either. Not even your mother. Or your mother’s mother. In fact, your father and your mother, are busy wrapping you in blankets,
I will write you no poems to tell you how alarming familiarity is. No ways to tell about knee plate earthquakes, how your ego grew tannin roses. All mirrors are motorways
A pilots pocket catches on the autopilot switch, A surgeon dips for incision and slips. A mountain guide clocks the map upside-down and here is no water, only rock.