(for Kyra)
Unfinished, the centre still gathers
to scatter
Bees unzip the tropic of afternoon
and through weaving heat lines
the ear thinks space: worlds
wavering in and out, urth-
ink: hot colours
pushing from inside the seventh month,
August, and I am listening, listening
at the door of your house,
my ear to taut skin
The whirl of the heart, your thinking
beginning now to bud, as I
grow down to wood, to bone
You spill toward your human hearth
with the speed of darkness, a whir
outward, earthward
Already
I can hear you
readying your shining cry