When the world began
there was no world to fill.
No place to throw our words.
No place for cities or towns.
There was no imaginal place
for dreams to root.
Graves to open up
and take our dead.
So I would ask,
where was loneliness?
Where was the dark?
Where was the prodigal poem?
The woman that cried on my face?
Where was the trembling of fear?
Was there nothing?
Nothing at all?
No question?
No answer?
No echo?
No intensity?
Only solitude?