I am a child, Ambrose. 
Today I celebrate my birth
during a pandemic. 
In my conical party hat
I unwrap birthday presents
though I did not ask, 
no one asks to be born. 
I did not choose to be marooned 
in my childhood home
other men strip of wood rot
and reframe, repaint, after 
their own image. After they
have finished, it will be 
as if I were never born. But OK, 
I’m sometimes OK with that. 
How many worlds had I gained 
before the glottal stop clipped 
short the Word I was born with? 
What path is this my feet are 
bared to? What phonemes
do the birds sing? How can I stay 
home if I don’t know what 
home is anymore, what art is, 
what Thou art, and I have 
lost the trailhead? My steps 
scattered like bits of bread 
are not the Bread. I watch you 
read, your eyes glissade, in silence. 
Come to visit you, I leave
without hello, goodbye.