In the arc of thought…
when light turns to flesh and words
attach themselves to ideas;
he falls back to the beginning -
to unhinged gates, to sharp, wire fences and cut grass
wet as a child’s first gargoyle sounds;
his unlined lips a perfect ‘o’ and the lizard tongue
touching the white teeth between.
It was there, in that tumbling-over time of effort
for less reward than for the joy
of feeling the heart beat,
the blood caper,
and the light as it sprung past the curtained window
to light his mind
brighter than any holy fool.
It was there the poet unclasped, uncurled,
removed his thumb from forming lips
and first set rhythm to breath; there he
felt the world was a scattered puzzle whose pieces
in all manner of turnings.
It was there,
before the cake had set,
or the spoon been licked,
that the first poems were captured
and set to stand for a time until sometimes,
in the cocooned darkness of intimate night,
they pop out… cooked.