by Anna Farley

How can a year open on a blank page?
“Write here.”
Write that the sky splits open like a crypt
For the rain to fall in.
And half-starved birds
come tumbling
From the sky
onto the bones of trees.

Who could doubt the myth
Of spontaneous generation?
That maggots might spring
From the carcass of a lamb?
That fleas could assemble themselves,
out of Dust?

How else to believe that all this:
The flat grey sea,
The muffled, biting world
Gives way
To spring.