Start at the beginning, which is to say the edge, the perimeter, the shore. That’s where all but the babes of my bedrock start. And even those delivered atop my Mount Sinai like commandments

Half an inch long, an eighth wide, flat as parchment, sharp enough co pierce and pain anyone of mother born, the gray section of wood sac upon an ecclesiastical purple matte between a gold-leafed garland of frame. 

It was 1973, the summer of Watergate, but my mind was not on politics, but literature. While the parade of unreliable narrators told their stories on daytime television to be followed by their nightly commentators