Alphabet City

First, begin with absolutely nothing,
no time, space, simply a predilection
for One thing, a spark to ignite the dark,
static, friction, a motivating force,
to kindle the frenzy, convert god-dream
to knowing, start a centillion factors
in motion, each without form or substance,
a shove from the unmoved mover: chaos.

Large circles of empty, bounded by nil,
teardrops of absence, without within none,
an aspiration, an absolute truth,
onto itself, without contingency.

Perhaps nothing never was, but always
something lingering there on the fine dust,
hovering there as a mist, in silence,
waiting, breathlessly, hopefully waiting.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013