"Sonnet" for Patriarchal Creation

What began, began with a bang
Or rather, bang! It began.
So say the cosmic biographers,
readers of the red shift, seeing
scions of some singularity twigging out.

Existence is an arboreal habit . . .
lives in the treeness of trees, deep in seeds
or in leaves or conifers’ cones
or like long-armed orangutans,
loping huge fruits, furry in the branches.
Squatters, yes. All simians are louts.

But creation always swang . . .
long before the mammals opened house,
even from the first emission.
Roots in the quantum soil
digging through darkmatter,
syncopation sprouts
keeping time for the comoving distance.

Somewhere between sun-suck and grope
stutters volition.
The shadow and the light, in roused attrition,
the ape, pulled erect by his own evolving hand,
sputters in the soil: the bastard man.