I wonder what you would have been like
If you had been born and raised
In a world without tradition,
Without specifications, without scripts.
In one version, I see you scampering
Out of the womb towards a dark cave
Where you crawl to the back and shiver
In moist paroxysms of rejection.
But I dislike that rendering and so I imagine
A child and woman filled with endless fascination
For experience and sensation, chasing butterflies
And souls with equal rapture.
Growing with the sun as melody to rhythm,
Syncopating on occasion to unnerve
The symmetry, dashing any impression
Of habit or rite.