After hatching—borne to ourselves
on the breath
of some dateless dawn,
we are certain
of no facts, excepting those that
we are
wet—and we
must be, at least,
here to bear witness.
And so—
at first light,
we begin crawling.
ever so
gingerly, at first—upward, determined
to capture nothing short of
our essence!—from a kaleido-
scope of new raw and beautiful
perspectives.
And each timid time,
climbing just
a little bit higher
so that, from each new dizzying increment,
we notice something a little bit wider,
a little bit greater, and a little less specific about us—
something wild and uncharted,
and yet,
still familiar; because always
attaching back,
lattice-
like, to the preceding picture.
Until—at long last,
we come to a certain precipice
the view from which we can no longer comprehend—
that of a dot
on a dot
on a blip
on a spiral—with huge amounts
of black-slathered
black! all around it.
But when we try—
to step back
to get a better view of this strange image,
we suddenly slip
on something wet
that we'd temporarily forgotten about
and tumble all
the way back
to begin again—only this time,
we tell ourselves
from the outset—
it's personal.
