Early Things

When I was born the light was in other people’s eyes. warm hands coddled spills of milky mew-shaped thirsts dabbed at my whiteboard mind. I began to wink the world into shapes; as a new Loosely fleshed presence I turned listless in the blood-warm bud. Early things showed up to crowd my eyes, back-lit beings leaned over a bar of sound, spoke in warm froth. Nameless images came and went red and yellow plastic spheres and beakers some had mouths to sooth raw and runty wonders, all as incomprehensible as a wet nose. Then that light-box of undeveloped things fell apart only to come together; I saw the garb of perception arise from a fitting room floor. A wind-tossed leaf entered my empty stage green was no longer a shadow crossing a white faceless backdrop. There I was, an early thing, gathering yeast for an as yet un-kneaded brain watching and sorting visions of returning caregivers, and the nameless similitudes that sometimes cooed, or that passed-by me latter to be horded, made to be countable.