Already the brow begins to knit,
the arm-buds reach for freedom from the mass,
the eyeholes deepen.
Delicate, the spine uncurls and lengthens,
ganglia and nerve by slow degrees
inhabit what we used to call the soul.
A small pulse separate on its own time,
and none of this is me,
or you, or us.
Brainwaves scatter in the blank of night,
a splay of light from
some new star.
And gently in the amniotic drowse
its face begins to shine,
a lucent stare.
Soon every feature will believe its name,
and tight fists beat across
the broken water.