In the beginning, you are with me.
Origami hands and gutterball diversions.
An elastic ego, an idle id,
a coruscating consequence of winter.
In the beginning, you are near.
You are the rustle of the trees,
tangle of these tresses, teasing, tasting.
In the beginning, I am parasitic.
I am evidence of the bourgeois.
I am the clean-cut corner store,
cashier smiles and cashed-out keno.
In the beginning, I am trivial.
The belle of the ball is in the bathroom,
her prince is in the alley,
but isn’t that all too cliché to write?
In the beginning, there is something missing.
A moment lapsed into a dimension unknown.
A general lack of purity, piousness, prayer.
Pickpocket princesses, primordial castles.
In the beginning, there is nothing.
Thick and constellating shadows.
A winsome void and wishful muse.
Wizened psalms, wistful palms.
In the end, you are with me.
In the end, you are near.
I am parasitic, I am trivial.
There is something missing, and then
there is nothing.