I have been witness to the beginning of the world---
how it reeled and railed out of the darkest ambiguities,
wailing like an infant, desperate as a seed.
It arose as life made by way of sacrifice,
straight from the barrel of a impetuous gun.
It cried Christ---as if to be saved once again
by the gentle to and fro
of a rocking cradle,
amid the hard air of winter,
summer---not referential, not even a mere dream.
It withstood noise, the junk of language and voices.
Also, there were slight questions
upon visions of light, upon ceilings, and people
that passed like blurry shapes