Baby Song

Swathed in pink dough
a beholder-bundle;
no buttons or galumph—

How do you sing in fits
of lather streaming
from thimble air?

If you had wings what
tattered cup could hold

you fubsy and hazel
doll of spoken mist?
You began less than a seed—

pearly babihew
doused with cobweb presumption.

Your apple-tree syllables
alight in the orioles of sense.

Your parents, enchanted,
make oratorio to your
undressed apron.

You only wear your skin
in blushing daffodil—

Goblin bee of tender gown,
breathing-in a puzzle—
are you, am I, anyone?