Mild day, a milky sky.
Just before lunch, two men
arrive,
Tell you it’s time to be born.
You don’t argue with such
briskness,
And they invite no questions.
You contend you’ve already been
born,
But they don’t respond.
Birds sing ecstatic as you slide
into their car.
Outside the city, narrow country
roads.
Sheep grazing on hillsides,
Some dye-coded, red and green.
You’ll be born in a distant city,
The driver says. Doesn’t
matter which.
You’ll have kindly parents, a
sister,
A bizarre old uncle, who—
He stops. Neither speaks
again.
Curves, valleys. An algebra of
trees.
Thoughts. You’re to be
born, and that is that.
Almost evening. No traffic
on this road,
A V of geese in the fading west.
The car speeds faster yet.
