Last week you formed the chambers of your own heart; this week
the lobes of your brain. I wake up thinking overcelebrate.
I wake with the phrase, as I am wont.

Chronology doesn't enter—my birth and yours,
my mother's pregnancy
and mine, they are the same: blessed,

and tendered thanks for infinite detail—windowsills,
before or after Advent, where the worm lived
by your vanished twin sister.

You must dream of animals, afraid,
pitching themselves into hollowed-out buildings, built
several stories down into the earth.