Fetus

His feet extend from the tireswing, a tail
forming a Q from the O,
as if he knows that the center is where
he's supposed to be.

Dangling there, he is the donut hole,
the wrist filling the watch,
the ring finger, the circus dog,
the tire -- his circling fire.

From far away he is a pendant,
and the tree's bloom is the head of a girl.
He can see down her shirt
into the valley where pebbles fall,
Edelweiss sprouting off both palisades.

A little cottage he calls home
sits on the left peak like a cherry,
which he can touch with an extended leg and pointed toe.

And when his mother calls,
he will slip through the tire's yawn,
and toboggin down the dark canyon,
the two mountains enfolding him
in a tunnell, where he is the drink
falling back to the pool of ice and carbonation,
red lips marking the kiss of a woman at the end of a long, white straw.