What the Word made was whole and stable, till
That snake pushed a theory in another key. Then Eve
Bit deep, starting feminist studies, as she traded dirunal
Garden, preferring post modern longings that branch, and fork
And Twist between Divinity and the Devil's branded
Habitations. After dreaming of Michael Angelo, some
Chose lyres whose strings set consonants in Sistine sepia,
Or follow guttural longings rattling down pulsating throats.
Words adapt: servant, master, hidden imperial will;
Inducting smiles, a frown, a silver lining; double takes
Brimful of Derrida, still busy in the judgment seat.
His tribe constructs each moments brief. They delete,
Like no other, traditions, key texts, purest commonsense;
Cast aside immortal longings; and such truth of generations
That sanctify point and purpose, or insource epic stamina.
This is manifold history, a recurring choice; ever there:
A newly risen Promise, or Babylonian agencies. But
No option for our tribe: Prophesy and Revelation, knowing
Poetry is elemental; its interlinked intimacies remember, read,
And write us. there is the rock cleft memory along a home-
Returning. Forty years and just a glimpse for a man of faith.
With others, imperfection asks word and grammar to rhyme
With thought. Intensify metaphors: they all uncoil the mind,
Burnish spirit: heal split infinities. Summon benedictions:
They rearrange, restore us, for this release, this search.
We feel to see to breathe. Night faces brighten yet again
As breaking light lays the first shafts to kiss each flower.
The falling leaf is equinox, yet without season, narrating
His walk in the Garden. That we cannot share, but share again
Because words are there to tell me so; because I see faces
Who have strolled some graceful evenings in that far place.
They elicit words that signify, that we should cleave unto,
Because they touch; because they tell....far more than words.
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