As Yet Unwritten
When does poetry unfold?
Does it unfold the moment I lift my hand, lift a pen, let it drip, dip into ink, paper, water, wood, sand, stone
Does it unfold the moment your makeshift wand conjures one more universe
Does it unfold when the universe gives birth to another?
Does it unfold when that universe, the one after this, brings forth light in balls of breath spheres of dust, rings of fire?
And what unfolds when they erupt, explode?
Light? Dark? Matter?
Light! Dark! Stars!
Does it unfold when magma moulds, mildew brings forth soil soaking under the moonlight when the tide comes and goes over, under under, over pushing, pulling, in, out, push, pull, over, in, grind, out, under, push, in pull, out, over, under, ground.
Does it unfold when a child is born, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine million bodies and souls
Does it unfold when a child is born once, twice, thrice, out of pulling and pushing universes, celestial bodies, forces unknown high over the clouds deep under water in one womb out of reach short of air, breath, words
Does poetry unfold when you lift your hand, lift your pen, let it drip, seep into paper, wood, roots, soil, earth, planet, sun, stars, galaxies, universes, verses, words as yet unwritten on paper, wood, metal, glass, sand, stone, memory?
How does poetry unfold?