Book of S- The Engendering

As if,

As if,

As if,

it is, beginning

the whole of the thing is covered by a black vision

a dark thought, the fermentation of nothing

without a past, only a concomitant    

dream upon dream upon dream

threading itself silently through the warp

tugging on the strands of a quiet sleep

of the cool and lonely shadows  in need

of an answer to its non-

self, with a complement

of happenings without

the internal paranoia of a coil

wound up in its nebulousness

an empty mirror of itself

As if,

As if,

As if,

what is, was

the design of chance

giving attention to conscious manifestations

smashing open into a chasm, of a pattern,

of fractals, of warmed over never-ending questions

about blank and white

about reasons and purposes

about being,

awakened through revelation is

 the

I,

I, I,

while her birth is called

out of wisdom pulling

her from my monolithic womb

S

makes round fleshes

for all of our expectations

and mercurial spheres  

to haunt me about her shoulders

she is giving neck to the mountains

parting lips or legs to pour

forth the primeval waters

As if,

As if,

As if,

S is

first raising clouds from the depths

of smoke emanating from the mantle

her four fists beat bones into the rivers

she is finding wind in her haunches

and storms in

every

one

of my corners

to hold

me together

by  the ribs

S, is

puffed and coughing up

her sultry body

so I may hold it

in my hands

and shower her

creations

with the light