In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth, and the earth became without form and void, and darkness was on the face of the deep, and God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” Genesis 1:1-3
Out of the rough earth, the poem was born, squinting and roaring into the pixillated black and white sunset, slamming Godzilla cries against the cold, unflinching wall of never ending night. It lifted its head, and sixteen spiny limbs rose into the air, chose a gust of wind to marry, wrapped cool ivory claws around it, dug in.The sky around it began to spin, banged its shins against the poem’s sharp hewn back. The poem attacked, pulled heaven into the ground, and all around it, seven-thousand saplings sprouted, grew leaves, blossomed with fist-sized flowers the color of pumpkin seeds, filling the white world with the smell of lavender, splattering the horizon with ruddy red hope.
The poem had ten-thousand heads, each of a different color. It spoke with ten-thousand voices calling out, “Be!,” and light swallowed the four corners of the horizon until there was nothing left of night but six billion stars and a lemon wedge moon, all of whom swooned into the arms of the poem, and the poem said, “You are me,” and they were.
The poem grew, became me and you, each of us one couplet, one rhyme. We danced out our time on our turquoise ball, each of us calling back to the poem, “I must come home,” and the poem wrapped its arms around all that was, and whispered, “You can never be anywhere but home. You are me.”
And the sea crashed in time to the poem, and dolphins rose from its waters, riding its waves into the luminescent dawn. The awning of heaven bowed to kiss each bottle nose, and four tangerine newborn suns rose,
and all the time, the poem bellows on,
and the light grows,
and it grows,
and it grows.