There is someone who knows.
In no beginning
was there just one language
nor did the surface gleam

with nineteen hours
of music as in our body-heat
through the head & limbs

the thumb and index finger
to form the ovular OH
of our self-fathering fable

war flail ≈ morning star
The original garden erudite,
lush lawn, & round
of trees
behind the limestone square, night

rain out of paper, under
the lights of the narrow
path up the rose hill.

From a dark corner rising now

to write orange with a knife
over green of the elusive
wall no one is watching