I could begin with the slate roof of sunsetthe smog has given us, or the low growlin the throat of a window—the A/C unitexasperated. I could begin with the coldcolor of gun metal, the aria of the bullet:sing a song full of the faith that the darkpast has taught us. I could begin in ocean:the gray headstones of dead coral, the onlygrave markers. Or approach the starting lineof seashore: the eye is colonized first. Or firethe ceramics in our language. What namedoes the sculpture give to the claywhen it lives in the kilnof a closed mouth? I could annunciate Fear notbetter than any angel and begin with the graysnow on a rose bush: the promise of color. Icould begin with the wheat we sow in ether,or the menagerie of jailed poets: Pen Pen Pen.I could begin in doubt true to our God, trueto our native land. I could begin in error:I don’t care what anyone else thinks.I could begin where I will end, in Ithakasso gray when one speaks their nameBaltimore will be the only word anyone hears.I could praise the present tense, and begin again.I could condition this vow: I will not loveanyone else, but instead begin to humin your ear, reader, lover, gray stranger.