Before the Tea Time, a Tortoise was Balancing Poe in the Ions of Silence

the dream of the rain,

began in a series of random numbers

and curled mustaches around a path

of non local speech, 

igniting the fury of the void,

a curiosity that sought itself

everywhere, until the moment 

the sky began, 

in ions at the bottom of outer space

where nobody expected themselves to wait,

perched like fish 

at the edge of the top of the ocean,

singing songs that could not beheard

because the human ear had no satellite dishes

when the world began 

and the face of Heaven was writ everywhere in a language

that did not know it was a language,

but that emanated throughout the universe in a geometry 

of silences, shadows, hues that imbued the flowers 

into drunken mute ululations of unfinished poetry,

which is where the end of the story began to derive

a series of non local numbers, and the dream of the rain

ignited in fiery non local whispers,

telling the tortoise how to explain itself 

once it had actually been born

and the Galapagos islands drifted away from the epicenter 

of creation,

anonymously, 

like Edgar Allen Poe having Tea with Charles Darwin

before either of them had actually evolved,

and the curtains of the sky were more like the eyelids of 

an imaginary being.