Beginnings.

 

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

could fit

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.