Born with teeth, a caul, a head of hair,
marked for great things,
Is anybody there
to hear the mother as she sings,
Unto me is born, is born, here, a child?
The same starfall
Spattered a desert, wild
forest predators saw it all.
He now pays bills, she irons out disputes.
No one here sings
To the naked men, suits
of skin, cold miraculous things.