Where do I begin?

Should it be at the height of fog hours,
doping up infallible images of affection,
among sifting smugness,
end over end in my sun-stroke mind?

Should it be it all tore down from closed doors,
every imperfection, every cyst, reworked by
some sort of Mortician,
consumed by grandeur for his practice?

Or should it be at the exact
moment
that all was realized– astuteness to
how fragile every meter of my unused offal really is?

Second to sick second, and day to well day,
all woven itself into a tapestry thats harder and harder to recall

Sew the squares, and caress the texture with tips of printless fingers
Each inch calls– no, howls –out into the basin where I sit

Howls of pain
                                 howls of stone
howls of criticism
                               howls of analysis
ripping through the brail that's sung to the bone

Tell to beg, where do I begin?