Brooklyn Baggett
In the primordial

we are passive &
waxing like the moon,
swaddled in our little night,
toes pointing at a starless sky:
a sketch. a skeleton thing
curled into a question mark.

Unfinished, we feel your voice
––– faintly –––
through layers of flesh and vessels;
feel it over the pulse of your organs–––
your living.
And our blood moves like your blood
long before our knowing.

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