It appears to be the hours before dawn,
though there is no such thing yet as time.
Beauty also is unaccounted for.
The mist is merely what it is: water
too weightless or wantless to fall.
Soon, cells wound up on the spool
will be spun into a body that, when it speaks,
only speaks in code. Soon, where
there was no mystery there will be mystery
in abundance. Where there once was pasture,
a pancreas, a spleen. Crows looming each
on a fence post now roost on a trellis
of cartilage, memory’s liquid weight clouding
the amygdala. Here, before
muscle, before blood, there is nothing
worth fearing. There is nothing here
but the stars drifting through their orchard
like embryos descending blindly
toward their wombs.