quick poem on the eve of our birth

I had to know
your inside mouth
and the way the snake
slid over the path
to our house, and how
your hand, like a dead bird,
was visible -- gray and unmoving
on the windowsill.
The laurels wait
to fall, but nobody
blossoms. Only moists
loose their singing
wedlocks -- wounds unbound
in bedding knots. Slender
heart, our shovels become
too much for us to merely
tout. Yours was the tilled
bank of sighing. Mine
was the loosened flocks.