Generative by Elaine Terranova
Everything has antecedents.
I have them and so do you.
As Brahms said of Beethoven,
“You don’t know what it is
to have his footsteps behind you.”
Heat melts and cold solidifies
the blood, the things of the heart.
You put the light on to find
where you are. It is not
eternal dark. Mountains
come out of nothing, out of
the crenulated earth.
And poetry moves an idea from
one thing to another. Nothing
is quiet in the cornfields, in the rainbarrels
of ocean. Always, an open door,
a fence of mirrors reflecting dawn.
