We scatter rainbow 
Markers on the rug
And make a diagram of people in the cast. 

These are the objects, the touchable—table, refrigerator, chair,
grease-splattered whiteness and woodgrain.
And here is the sound of the baby muttering and cooing,

A day too large for the summer, standing up
out of the bus lanes, puzzled on its face
like the miniaturist who becomes famous

The faintly digital click of the overhead fan
         stroking what was left of the dark
     had finally given way to a rooster alarm

Then one day the gray rags vanish
and the sweet wind rattles her sash.
Her secrets bloom hot. I’m wild for everything. 

So hot the shore we drove through four states
to reach stays dazed a skipping-stone’s throw 
beyond the window, though the tide creeps out,

This cemetery is no haven, 
old Jews waving at you 
offering Kaddish for a few dollars, 

a meteorite is somehow connected to salvation
from the destroying father: the celestial child
emerging hot out of the earth.

The secret fetus curls inside. It is not
understood why the snail
embryo twists back

 All this he must do with a brush? All this
With a brush, a touch, a thought—
  Till the time-filled forms are ripening in their places,