out of the black hole of a night.
I stand before a streetlamp,
evening and morning, the first day.
The shadows of
some other universe—
porches, a picket fence, a marble column—
will not flare into existence yet.
They are not in my thoughts at present.
I am a word
speaking in Heisenberg’s void,
and nothing exists except in my mind:
White galaxies spin around the lamp
and conform to
the currents of my breath.
The night proceeds, the genesis
of lights now in living room windows,
and I see that it is good.
Gathering my fur
collar against the cold,
I move through the possibility
of an amniotic street.
There is another lamp up ahead,
falling out of the
There are beginnings within beginnings,
the fractal nomenclature of creation.
Block by block,
everything hinges on the position
of the observer, snow, and a streetlamp.
In the beginning.