On a particularly ashen epoch,
sky-spindles weaving the clouds
until they were as impenetrable
as the ocean below, horizons
a mesh of the two (the blueness of sky
something arcane now), God dove
down from his



heaven






Calliope was born too long ago
but she still cried like a child
from the absence of creatures
inclined to weave tales;

[seclusion]


is not meant
for storytellers.

In the ocean, primordial soup,
God visited the chambered nautilus
and said: creatures I have ascribed to land
do not call up to Calliope, but you
must know of a suitable story for her.



I know not of such a story.
You have been here for eons.



Uneventful eons.
Uneventful? I created a new world!



Creatures have not moved since



then.
Why have the creatures not moved?



What is there for them to move for?
(in a godly sardonic tone) How may I make the creatures move?



Endow them with the legs to move beyond the sea…
And?



Physical movement will inspire mental movement.



Calliope shall have her stories.

(Take note: God’s lesson from one of his own creatures
was omitted in ensuing texts)

Intrigued, God fixated on the plankton;
in these eukaryotic cells
he infused the indescribable,
rivulets of vitality through cytoplasm,
granted them microscopic appendages
and said: Move & Describe.
So out of the ocean they moved,
the task of description bundled
in the nucleus of poetry
strapped to their cellular backs—

it is time we realized
our penchant for poetry
predates what we call
Homo sapiens sapiens;
not in our minds the essence lies
but in our very bodies.