They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Preemie: Baby girl Morris, 2 lbs., 0 oz. | Tracie Morris

Born to death, to prayer.

Angels, egun, mother

Huddled-over glass box

 rubber sealing circles, plastic

 hands smooth comfort, wither-skin

I prissily eat this air

Coating, color of artificial sun,

bored with repetitious day,

 asks me: What’s night like?

 We need to be reminded,

brief was our stay. Recall

warm, though. Deep brown,

Aerodynamic gas, white light blazing through

 glaze of unready lids, rays’

 promises of multi-hues, shapes, shade.

Who is who here?

teeny tubes tie me to:

fists, little nails extend/curl.

 Globes, pustules, bubbles, sphere

 here. All convections of heaven.