at the frequency of unmade babies

the naked branches of trees
float, reflected in the fluid
of forest pond,
the panorama of sky
drifts in the retina of a young man
thrown out into the world

by a father, wasting his allotment of humanity

couch-surfing in friends' basements;
he often walks the woods as penance
for faults not his own



but today,

stoned to the bone and amazed,

vibrating at the frequency of unmade babies

in the flux of womb waves,

of amniotic nirvana,

his awareness opens

to the scintillating energy around him,

a sparrow alights on a tree branch…



he stops

to count his breaths;

he deliberates

and then smiles…

he is remembering a time

when he was not breathing

as we do,

with lungs greedy and isolate,
when his heart was beating
in synch with another's,
with a mother’s,
to the rhythm of the Universe,
when all was well,
when she still knew possibility
and could feel
pain