Creation Myth

in this beginning, some ambidextrous Lover is

plastering hand shadows like gumbo on a butt-naked wall,

and taking the tick-tock out of clocks.

this Paramour smoothes city-wrinkled foreheads

                                                       such poor puckered half-lives

to un-bottle a tempest;

paint harnessed, splattered onto

a starred canvas woven

by a Curiosity strung out

on open space and open-mouthed altitude.

            the kind of canvas that would stitch shut Time’s

            puppet lips if

            drunken banter didn’t so amuse

            this western Welkin.

no longer masked nor latticed, hard-hearts

give way to a tenderness like

pulp, a malleable Love with estrous hands

                                    reproducing some meaty minute, some

                                    lip-lock that dislodges the tempest;

                                    makes pollen.

pollen: a pulse, a blossom, a heat.

no longer such poor puckered things giggles (this, that, some) God.