hello blank page, hello black ink,
hello the faceless wonder of beginning.
i begin to think of chariots drawn by dragons.
(the safest and most frightening job
is to hold the reins.)
i begin to think of black trees felled by the wind.
they fall on cars legitimately parked,
unsuspecting citizens, and power lines.
who could have foreseen this?
i think (as i have thought before) about the woman wearing red,
who stood at the ends of the earth and laughed,
who looked directly at the sun,
whose robe was lit with fire.
men hold a secret evil in their breasts
and write their books as if in compensation.
they want to know if the great serpents fanned the trees,
and were they called by the virgin, do you know?
they ask, is this a good beginning?
and who can we blame?