Nativity

The eyes of the beasts shine into my own. 
The archangel’s hair is on fire. I stumble 
through the mudprints of cows and ewes 
toward the damp side of the cave 
where all gods are born. Through odors of hay 
and mortared dung, toward a slit of light 
that falls onto her arms, I move toward him, 
a clean claw out of dark fur; my feet 
awkward on brindled straw, I kneel. 

Morning comes. The sky, still bright with suns, 
shows me the blue of my own veins. The world 
is left in the absence of wanting. I walk 
among the sheep with new eyes and the reasoning 
of an insect. I say to the angels 
brandishing the hills, I saw him, the swaddled 
fists, the tiny mouth. I heard his cry.