Wednesday, April 11, 2012

The Mask of Adam

The day they left the garden
the garden left them.
The birds gathered in the groves.
The sky opened like a fan.

The ground is hardpan.
The rocks are knives.
A canyon opens its arms.
Wilderness, will you take us?

Wrinkled already and sere
are the leaves hiding our nakedness.
A cold wind blows. There is no
shelter but our embrace.

Our only way is forward.
Behind us stands the flame
of the guardian angel, terrible
on the distant horizon.

Somewhere the child’s face
has slipped into the pool,
vanishing behind the ice
of the man’s mask.


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