White. Every documented fact has started with a blinking black line in the
top-left corner of a one-inch-margin box.
I believe I was born blinking. I believe I was born Siamese—I mean, my mother’s
brain and mine are inside of me.
Then earth came clean, rubbing Adam’s dream from my ribs—she grew gills and
fins—some backwards evolving beauty earth is.
She shrinks herself from eel to amoeba, wavers her flagella, swims away. God
rides on her back. Eden slithers. Black.
There are bird bones in the clouds. How they fly too. Ribs as wings. Words
stream: how we come too.