At the Earth’s Core are Flowers

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AT THE EARTH’S CORE ARE FLOWERS


How best to speak about the one

who is beginningless when we must begin

somewhere, a perennial predicament 


which may (if partially) illuminate

our penchant for the period—

so long as we can land, 


we tell ourselves, we understand

exactly where to start. So today we land

a butterfly on a cork board, 


his wings pinned wide

so that we might best resume 

the work of our analysis, where soon 


all will conclude that something

here is missing, and the animating 

One—much like this poem—


offers no conclusion

other than love 

and love

             and love


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