PATRICK PHILLIPS
In the Beginning
we were cameras.
We opened our eyes
and dark leaves
fluttered in the wind.
We were little boxes
into which the air deposited
a barking dog,
the taste of honeysuckle,
the scent of something
rotting in the shadows
of a huge magnolia.
There was the world
and we were in it,
but all it meant was world.
And when the endless dream
of childhood ended,
we were dowsing rods
that bowed and trembled
over everything.
We wanted to dig our graves
in the hearts
of those we loved
and lie down
in their skins.
And now, in the end,
we are like trees:
whole human beings
sprang from us!
We sway above them,
whispering things
not heard on earth
but in the dark
over such cribs.
Their gray eyes open
and our dark leaves
tremble in the wind.
