This is the first two sections of what will be a lengthy poem.

I.
Here now, in an icy forest I see an unformed One.
A human. Many have multiplied in this country--
one fornicator brewed out of the womb of another--

A grey mist shows the outline of the head,
arms, legs, feet; fingers not yet
numbered. This, a clay figure.

Look to the violence I can do here!

I will take as Homer took Ulysses
and then will do as Joyce did Bloom
I will command as all men command their mythings:
with loud voice, subtle pen, and fulsome sword--

and who knows where this danger will lead me
because I chip and mold with indiscriminate hands.

II.
Now

out of clay a man alone--
I see him in the icy forest,
suspended hanging beneath an oak
all alone in the icy forest,
the world has not begun just yet.

We all know how the world begins
as it will begin just now.

In the north, the icy forest
in the south, a burning wood
in the east a giant nothing
in the west a giant nothing

see the fog in the icy forest
and the ash falls down in the burning wood.

The spirit of heat in the burning wood
longs for the rest of the icy forest.
The icy forest wants nothing.

But there is a wind from the south
calling to its brothers for succor
in cold. Rushing across the tops
of pines.

How does the world begin from here
except that with great anger
winds rush out of the north and south
striking blows in the central nothing
until a cold and melting giant--colorless--
pitches his body between them
arching his chest; his hands
too large to grasp, his tongue
too large to speak.

For a long time
he describes the size
of the universe
and the shape of it.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Ero, in the year 479 AF.