We hear the first notes as we cry,

the insistence of air

shocking us all, timpani vibrating

as we sense the bright world.

We don't know why we are here

no more nor less than what we are

and were before –

wingless, hairy

we root for the dark stalk, its dripping music

follow the milk song,

the echo of our mothers’ voices,

each mouthful a stay against the loss –

our skins raise mild white pustules in the light –

for the dark is never as dark again

and as we sleep our eyes roll back

to gaze at where we come from.