I’m not blowing smoke, nor am I a posing sage.
It’s a simple condition. The universe may as well
not have been before; in fact “before” was not
before I entered time, there’s not one memory
I can hang a word upon —before I entered time
just void, white as the sheet of this page
before something keyed this poem’s first I
in the beginning
I’m now somewhere around there’s not one memory
and by the time I get to stop? will there be any words
still worth saying, any do still worth doing
as I leap from time will there be anything
more than smoke of a doused fire curling up
cycling against gravity
—something lighter than air,
then will the music stop?