A poem about something that happens to all of us
and none of us remember except for me.
It's about being born.
It's called "Cloud River."
I never thought I would write a line
like the first line of this poem, but I still [INAUDIBLE]..
But my imagination finally got unfettered enough
to do something else.
The unborn children are rolling out to the far edge of the sky,
looking for warm beds to appear in.
How lucky they are, dressed in their lake colored gowns.
The oars and their oily locks taking them stroke by stroke,
to circumference and artery.
I'd like to be with them still, pulling my weight.
Blisters like small white hearts in the waxed palms of my hands.
I'd like to remember my old name and keep the watch,
waiting for something immense and unspeakable
to uncover its face.