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.