Living's ruminative rule:
Know not what you're getting into.
Smothered, soft head and two feet
Warm still in a nest built for you.
But thought to be founded, instead.

Right when nature makes sense
Resplendent, fluorescent lights
Taste insane. You've been born, a bastard
Art of cellular division or rather a skin itch.
Nearly dead, feathered mother will soon write

Poetry with sound waves the same shape
Of your fingerprints. Father's broken voice is
Heard as it will always be with weeps
And screams, "Oh boy, a boy"
With red-stitched baseballs in irises.

Air-conditioner for adult comfort freezes
Wet salmon pink skin. And, you howl for mercy,
Though the wild doctor with strong hands will cut you
Loose, anyway. Instantly, you hunger, ache, pray
Until you draw from her breast,
Finally, formally introduced.