The Moment The Womb Unravels Poem by Mark Heathcote

We all want to run our own Broadway show
Leave these trappings of time and place
the moment the womb unravels its innards.
Each body, each person is a wilting-flower vase.

We're all departmentalized in this world.
Boxed contents, the volume of which is equal
and yet disproportionate, whatever vibrations
shape their path the framework of these people.

They are all the same, glass half full, half-empty,
they are like a divided ocean pivoting
one way and then another moment another way
we're all internationally, globally, commingling,

mingling ah, all of creation, creation is singing
listen to the hummingbird, the common nightingale
listen to the New Guinea singing dog howl
listen to the gibbon and the common quail.

This world has its very own reggae-roots-musician,
a music baton in an otherworldly 'Conductor's hand.'
This world is a singing beluga whale
the musical notations, connotations of which,
we'll never understand.