The Poet Considers the Syllabus

Even mold can imagine a home. We are not lessened

by the beginning. I cradled a kitten to my heart once,

her teeth to my palm in benediction. She reached

for me. We understand each other, this animal and I.

We will dream together again.

This was not the first. Symmetry arises

from disparate structures. The molecular

begets prayer, begets, eventually, the brush in hand.

The painting of our days, the intention strove toward

if not foretold.

None of this is prophecy. We choose our pieces

if not our road. We could do it alone if it came to

that, necessity or choice or some sign called providence.

We could die alone, too, so many bones forgotten

in the forest of us. The canvas bleached in the sun, the

brush forgotten. Yet, the cat left her teeth in my palm and

I carried her out under the sun to know the world. This,

I would show you how to carry. The scaffolding

chose a name. Give it another, please. Build something

past the bones and the brush and all our wreckage. Take

up what came before, tooth to palm, scar to word. Take up

a call and build.