All Beginnings Thrust

The needle before the knitting, sheep shorn before the wheel, that puff of fibres

clotting along with the Moirai - those dames and their everlasting spin, span, snip!

Bread yeasting up in the bowl, a dome of disparity. Ingredients fuddled, it’s bigging

to bake. Pain on a crusty chew; disintegration, via enzyme, into cack again, I fear.

The carve of the small: woodblock solid before the final figure’s chipped, straight

and crooked. Don’t forget the halt and the lame; they, too, will be forced whole.

Plans hold, though, else they’re found in the making. What was before the map,

the scouring of distant seas, the rumour? Backburner stuff, a melt pot. Plan? Pah!

Where was I before this point? Flops and frustration turned to the watch, waiting

for this thing buzzily hulking, bursting forth ex nihilo, sans shine, or so it seems

when out with the stars. Those tips of light, pre-numbers, dip, a flickering counter

to dark. How names? Terms, patterns from the heirs of Enlightenment, their God lost.

Something out of Something, perhaps? There is no void in us; not one we easily see, I think. 
Therefore, on a good day, I seem to be, atoms, fusion ignored, which is woeful.

Right! Smarten up roundabout there! Bootstrap jerk time and bombs internally at dawn.

Es muss sein. Dresden and Coventry will be rebuilt. I fumble about my widgets’ work.

Chaos, my life! Are you OK with that? Tohu-bohu all topsy-turvy, potentiality a-flip before

the beginning. Forever and ever? There’s a happy trip, then, into, out of the unknown!