peo­ple have asked in a way that
is almost exactly rude, how
it is or isn’t, con­sid­er­ing my waver­ing
ten­dency to link myself with
the desire to write, that I have
yet to put fin­ger to key and explain in
unabashed obscu­rity what it is or isn’t like to
wit­ness life begin­ning — and I
often respond, half-wittedly, tomyselfonlily

that my rea­son for not wast­ing time
pool­ing together hours con­cern­ing the
man­i­fes­ta­tion of a kid, his or her com­ing
to be is that I have kids that
are quite pro­fi­cient in the prac­tice of
being, and are employ­ing the afore­men­tioned
pro­fi­ciency at the alarm­ing, awe­some
rate of always per always. despite

the trite­ness of that, that
actu­ally is the long and short of it.