pattern

where or what and you began.
or was it begot or begat?
all the same, i walked
the circuits of your toes,
their digits talking
of flotsam or jetstreams
that same greenish hue
of cornstalks waddling
in air you haven’t birthed but
the same permanence of ink
listing on your mother’s skin.

there is something here:
it’s not like the other and
it’s found in the radius of
your small arms
against the ribbon of
my vertebrae.

you’re unfurled now, my
little flag, bucking against
the battle of the pattern
of your breath.  your cheeks
the same moonscape as before,
the last whisper of
an explorer sighing, hands
dripped in gold.