We gum Lincoln Logs, drool on bibs,
but syllables, spooned with mashed

bananas, spark neurons. The moon’s
bade goodnight, Wendy takes flight.

Now, paragraph jockeys, keyboard
clackers ready with a quip, we hardly

recall the terror of cursive, when we
didn’t intuit what thread binds cyanide

to an evening sky. So how to conjure
the world before it was named? We’ll

come closest bumping headboards.
As throats shudder alongside thighs,

there’s no urge to transmute the golden
honey to word’s bile. It’s what we grope

back to—when cradled by sensation, not
yet compelled to account for ourselves.