No more will ever come up and through,
like breath from navel to crown.
Surrounding me, the scratch and spill,
ink-staining on the drawn blank.
I am barren, at last croned. No more pushed
down and out, body splitting like a seed.
Unhurried, Turtle whispers, gestate.
The “oh!” Something is becoming.
Tumbling at the end of an untangled knot,
the poem: an ear waiting in the swell.