The
Unbeginning
—or, maybe you could just
give up on beginnings. After all,
this notion that things start
and end somewhere
has caused you so much trouble!
Look at the wild radish in the fields out there.
Isn't it always row
and row of pastel pink-
yellow-blue like some bargain
print of itself, in new pillowcases, on sale;
and you stumble
through it thinking art must come
from the book of splendor
or the book of longing
until the rhythms curve
and the previous music
hasn't ended yet:
the whir the blackbirds make,
as they land, sound like velcro,
like a child undoing
velcro from the winter jacket
(from the hood
of a winter jacket)