What Leans Close

The world births itself in increments
violence and grace hover above
our cribs like mobiles.

We watch the glow of animals and stars
jostle and sway —
each dangling wire a shiny
tentacle of flame.
We reach for what leans close.

The power to choose leaves
as what we grasp seizes us,
becomes permanent
in our new clay.

Still wet, we rise on wobbly legs
into the future that holds the sculpted imprint
of the tools that make us
fit the mold
of what we have been told.