Thursday, September 13, 2012


…the willow says, in lamenting tendrils:
            I’ve not forgotten Eden.
            Sculpted onyx soil
            coasting flowing crystal.
            My nectariferous kindred,
            boundless and un-graven pillars.
            Now, a cancer chews my flesh.
            Its worms burrow through my torso.
            By Adam’s disastrous appetite
            the soil tastes only of poison.
            But I have not forgotten Eden.
            Where You were wont to
            walk in my shade.
            When will You, O Architect,
            walk in my solace again?

…the ocean says, through salified crests:
            As wave and vapor I have slaked the thirst
of this, Your wonder.
As sunken mass
and high-borne shroud.
What, though, of my thirst?
I am that which You set to wend when all
Earth’s verdure was new,
placid glassy
veins embanked with
Eden’s emerald loaming,
but now? To be free of these seismic tantrums
that scatter my bulk over
shattering casts.
To know no more the
itch of hooks ripping through my innards.
Most of all, I miss the stillness
of Your hovering
a precedent set
for the weaker sway
of that pitched, pearlescent moon.
She, for all her tidal dint,
has never moved me
like You.

…the land says, with magmic bile:
            How many spasms
can You stand
to rack
Your handiwork, Creator?
How long
You watch the bones of Paradise
When You shaped my chthonian framework,
I suffered no such throes;
humic ataraxy, Eden singing
ingrained ecstasy
atop my spheres, content
to rest in still docility.
No cataclysms made castanets
of my cracking,
underneath the feet of Eve
tending me in Eden,
and still, the whorls of Your touch…
mountains exhaling wistfulness.
millennia gnash my
            I dream in lightless fathoms
            of Eden and the day
You’ll reclaim
from chimbling sin…
            a work began atop my skull
            with Him.