Suppose

you’re yet unborn, a cloud
perhaps, floating formless in the blue.

It’s fun to bulge into a dragon or a whale—
the winds will shape your person as they will.

You’re all the colors of the rainbow still.
One will wrap around you later.

Pink announcement cards?  Or blue?
Or purple maybe?  Orange?  Can’t say yet.

Rain falls on the rich and poor, so you’ll be wet.
But your inheritance?  The ink’s still in the well.

The hurricane of hearts and hands and neural nets
swirls toward you—don’t know what you’ll get.

From that whirl of possibility, a myriad faces
of the Infinite peer out.  You’ll kneel to one

someday.  Dominant sect? Or heretic?
It’s all Location. Location. Location. But now

eager sperm are wriggling closer!  Closer!
Egg is panting, her arms outstretched!