Elemental Conception

She wants to grow from the rich-rotten trunk of the stamp left to sprout in the chain-linked alley yard. She wants to be born there. Or out of dry wind rushing debris around and cleaning the world like a slate that hasn’t yet written how her birth will be if she be born slick-wet and shimmering in rings like gas spill, born from long trickles run off curb-piled snow that flows in curtains any northern winter when it is possible to burn in water, when flakes against skin so cold brand their pattern on the new-thought, engraved self.