The womb is cozy, warm
But all of us get outed
Taking all the umbilical considerations
With us as we become us
Sometimes pain
Sometimes eyes forced open
Sometimes the prodigal son
Sometimes meeting the trickster
But always mystery if we pay attention
There are other wombs
Like a warm eucalyptus bath
Or wrapped in the Adagio for Strings
Or in the arms of a lover
But none are available in the grave
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