A cradle of warmed oats for the chickens on the Epiphany

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.