was things
in their beginnings,
not at their ends—
fresh from the
womb as wet
dew on green grass,
the dumb sense
of self fast
asleep in the basement.
This was the planet
before it had a motion.
In a dream, you behold
the very first poets
in their maiden
somnambulations:
those innocent members
of the ancient race
of fathers;
all the different names
they must have had
for god.
