One found, arising ex nihilo, an entire
Mythology at once, the mythology
Of anything arising ex nihilo. Nothing
Arises without something in the way
Of a remarkably similar prequel. "I know,
Although the universe may go on a long time
I won't," said Martin Rhys, cosmologist,
Explaining why he couldn't take a long view
Stuck in traffic, even though the long view
He best knew. This too, had preface, priors,
Came from somewhere, good as to say
Came from everywhere like everything.
Body, pounding heart and splintered joints,
Leaned back in a chair behind a soon to be
Abandoned window currently filled
With angled western cathedral light
Through the mute choir of picture clouds.
One would have thought, thought body,
There were angels, finally, that didn't look
At all like me or us. How satisfying. The day
Itself, this day of self, had had a double
Beginning, a stutter, a false start, a fetch.
When the shattering alarm rang in the dark,
Body flung an arm at it to stop it and self
Arose from the dead, ex nihilo, but no
Longer from nothing as soon as again it was,
And together they stumbled with me
To the bathroom and the kitchen, noticing
How unusually bright the predawn stars,
How unusually quiet the toy town, tourist
Town outside, until it dawned on self, cued
No doubt by frantic signals hammering
Noiselessly from the subconscious brain,
That it was not the hour for waking up
At all, that it was the darkest hour, or one
Of them. There had never been an alarm.
Body had dreamed an alarm as we slept
And self had leapt back into existence,
Feeling remarkably alert for once, but
It was all a parasomnia, and now the day
Had to be folded back away, body dragged
Back to bed, self scolded, all of us hoping
To get back to sleep, go away, those who
Could go, until another alarm, a real morning
When it came. And it did, of course, and we
Dragged through it all again and all the rest
Until there we were, body in the chair,
Self in the clouds, and me in the light
I wanted to know from nothing, ex nihilo.
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