for Oscar Christoph’s birth

Wax, little moon.

Between toes and forehead,

your fullness remembers itself.

It’s still dark in your palms,

darker still in your mouth,

yet there beats and beats

a whole novel

world round

your rolling ears,

your found thumbs,

your warm red

firmament—

an outer-space sound,

a faint father voice,

perhaps a new sky,

an up and a down. But what

are up and down and out

to all your roundness?

Wax, little moon. Make strong

fists. Send your non-too-solid

glaucous splendor out

with the tide and light

your knowing mouth

gravely.

Airily.

Then loudly,

land and summon us.

*pomp—Shoshone: unborn child