The first day to heave your feet little by little from the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth,
Not quite alive.
A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.
And set forward, slow-dragging, on your four-pinned toes,
Rowing slowly forward.
And the long ages, and the lingering chill
Make you pause to yawn,
Opening your impervious mouth,
Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like some suddenly gaping pincers;
Soft red tongue, and thin hard gums,
Then close the wedge of your little mountain front,
Your face, baby tortoise.
And look with laconic, black eyes?
…Are you able to wonder?
Stoic, Ulyssean atom;
Suddenly hasty, reckless, on high toes.
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law…
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Save that, having come with you so far,
We will go on to the end.
He must be killed…
Before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
This little bit chipped off in brilliance,
And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.
Probably he was big…
Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.
We look at him through the wrong end of the telescope of Time,
Luckily for us.