Tuesday, March 16, 2021


It might turn out, reality 
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 

those innocent members 
of the ancient race 

of fathers;
all the different names

they must have had
for god.