Ten Meter Tower

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

We took root in sidewalks when there were any, followed mile-long tracks in the street, hopscotch games in every direction could break your Mama’s back & every line your father’s missing spine, cracked gravel a slit in a sick arm, soft enough for a weed to poke through, a dandelion or two bright as yellow

Introit  The word becomes flesh head first from the canal— introitus from the Latin— slick with the body’s sacred waters, vernix caseosa, down on head and shoulders if it’s early, slips into hands, gloved in white, or into water warm as the womb. The cord is cut; sex revealed, revered, disdained. Girl, at birth. Kyrie