Prelude

Page one. Pen cap picked off like the head of a black flower. A new sun, which does not mean a sun that is not visible, the way a new moon denotes an abscess. No, I mean a freshborn sun that has shaken off the slough of winter necrosis. There are crocuses and lilies in my thoughts, blossoms bulging with bloated bees--not bloated in a bad manner, but ripe with nectar they have pulled from this willing pen.

Start again. Start again. Every rusted gear has to scream at the outset. Atrophied muscle chews its nerves in protest, but still I whip it onward, unseen red masses ready to purloin pulsars into an orbit. Nebulous arms of thought snake outward, they are ink poured onto a spinning record, reaching by force for the outermost stainables. Black ink, white paper, page one.