Creation Myth Creation Myth

The land is tall. The light is tall. November’s full of memory.

The year and years before are casting backwards from today.

Hasn’t the daily inching of the scrub been noticed yet?

Don’t the sun and satellites reverse across the sky,

the silts of mornings redissolve into their own befores?

The eye’s colluvium compels an amity of rock,

returning cuffs of chalk to cliffs receding from the waves.

Winter holds its breath while passing by in corridors.

Siphonophores are jet-propelling lance-wise through some deep.

An afternoon relays itself across a triptych of windows,

inside the middle one of which a story’s resolutely paused.

From here, it seems, there are exactly three ways things might go.

The first is growing through themselves a land of crab and stone.

Second, bulletlike buds could fire a garden wide of the moon.

The third is literally anything else, then anything else again.