In the beginning, there was
a prepositional phrase.
This was followed by
a long period of silence
during which cells divided.
Soon enough, animals
and slow-moving animals
known as plants.
Blackberries sweetened
in order to be eaten,
but the other events
tended toward brutality.
All of this before cursive,
before brushstroke
and the potter’s palms,
cupped above the wheel.

In the end, there was
neither light nor darkness,
only battleship gray,
uttered in isolation
by the final proponent
of the passive voice.
The implosions got old,
which is how we knew
nothingness was coming.
The blank canvasses’
prophecy, the surviving
clean sheets of paper
thrashing above us,
our last words
clumsy, unintelligible
syllables, babble—