Sealing The Abyss

When the glaciers melt backit's plain to see that the toweris perpendicular to the slanted ground& covered in white barnacles.Astronomers find a mole on Atlas's back.Archaeologists know it as the Garden of Eden;theologians call it the Well of Chaos.Angels hide as best they can—a rare sneeze heard late at night reveals them.Visible from far beyond the horizonthe city sparkles high into the clouds.Getting closer you begin to speak in fragments—you can't explain why you're herelike a fly stuck on flypaperblinking in the burning sun.White-gloved cherubs with electric shawarma knivesCain's fires illumine God's face.Crossing the threshold you marvelHow could I have forgotten?The prolific applerenders arrival & departure always fresh.You spit out your mouthful of earth& mumble God's praise.A branch sways.Fruit drops from the tree, it's fall.You stirwith wind & clouda precious pebble in your fist.Are there no stones where you're going?The terror of meetingthe Most Terrible Mirrorin a sudden turn of the labyrinth—you know God like an ant knows your shoe.You fled Eden sure you left the beastin your mother's womb.A slender snake slid inshed its skin & multiplied . . . You shuddered at the terrible crywrapped yourself in the serpent's hide—ran & ran, far as you could.The earth lies flat for those who needyou hum to the unborn sobbing in their sleep.Lover & beloved love equally.Feeble eyes drag the skyline.(Has the siege begun?)Fluent in eternity, master of braillea snail dreams the dreams of the blind.The alarm clocks ring—Adam turns overto the other side. Tipsy with promiseEve inhales at the open window.Stars swim like herring in a barrel.Bees are angry, the hive cramped & smelly;wasps keep asking Would he eat the apple again?The dead know more than the living—they've stopped weighing mountainsstars are the crumbs on their table.Every garment, every formsecond-handconfident they'll wakewindblown as thistledownsleepers redream God's reverie.Twilight of the sixth day.Orphans & widowseven the dead compete.The line of martyrs is long.Figs split open, turning to honeysun ripens the humble.Wind in a hollow tooththe blind, tapping cane . . . From the bottom of the cisternsgreen voices call, Come drown without dying.The armies of the past deserted in vain—no one leaves the city of cul-de-sacs.From every alley cats come to lick God's milkrusted TV antennae pick up His words;water tanks, His blessing.Like doves that recognize their brancheach angel knows its apartment blockevery demon its gutter.The dirt is old here & so is sin;dust, the snake's food, is everywhere—a mile deep, the compost is lush with stubble.It's this mountain afloat an underground seathat seals the abyss.More wind than water, more whitewash than walls.On shadow trains, on shipsdocked at this mountaintopwe're here, in a death-defying wait.The gate of false dreams, hyenas cackle.Such inelegant bloodthe wind blows.Return in pursuit of what's no longer there?Grieving for tail feathers lostin the closing door—the turnstile to oblivion—ghostsare a surplus of nostalgiafor what never was as it never had been.Wells filled with sandbeyond the ruins it's desert.When the fires die downdiscussion about the landscape begins:No sulphur to thaw the frostsalt is all she left of her face;the eviction notice that blossomedto a ticket out of hell.Despite rat poison in the cornersnumbers overrun the place.The land of the living;visibly vernacular . . . As if reassured of a futurestick out your tongue—this side of the sky tastes new.