A Native Nativity

You try to make them civilized and grown-up, but the words are infants, they want to crawl around and yell for a bit. You know that an eye is upon you. watching you in that whelping room where creation rearranges molecules into a planetary system of speech made of matchsticks and glue. A poem is about to be splashed, onto a speeding window of light. Logic and reason must first bash their bulbous heads together, until their mechanical, self-winding brains fall out. The collective humming of incubators, begins to lipread your silence. A process similar to hand washing. Eventually a swaddled indigenous form, unwraps itself, it begins to walk upright. Matchsticks and glue form readable fragments. You begin to hope, that someone inside that watching eye will name what you have done - even attempt, to explain it to you.