It began as so many beginnings do

without any discernable edges at all.

I was just there, suddenly, in a museum

that grand reservoir of human history,

also without discernable beginning or end.

I was studying a mystical swamp scene

when a painted man appeared beside me,

a refugee from an unseen Bacon masterpiece.

“My face was too benign, my brushstrokes too kind,

I was painted on a sunny day, discarded by dusk,”

he explained, wordlessly.

“Anyway, I know this lost place, I know it well”

he said, looking past me into the wilderness.

I studied his face, a shimmering spectrum,

and I trusted him.

“My name is ________” he said.

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