eden
god mutters
in his garden
“these weeds
that sprang up
when i made angels
– shadows, bent
reflections, parodies
of my divine work
– i keep pulling
them up, but they
just grow back
in greater numbers
– many more now
than the heavenly host!
nothing i do
seems to stop
them. worse yet,
they presume to
think themselves
people. as if.”
the world is round
lenticular clouds
compress logarithmically
to the far horizon.
in this corner of the world
— this corner of no right angles —
the salt-breeze is gentle,
the high-breaking waves are warm,
& the sun strikes obliquely
on the copper-shiny sphere
at the volcano’s rim.
green birds circle the sphere,
reflected in its surface, deflected
by its influence. no one
dares approach it, but all
can feel its force. it
infiltrates our waking thoughts,
it grips & shapes our dreams.
in the shadow of the sphere
we dream inhuman, foreign dreams —
we dream the dreams of others,
in language & cadences not our own:
the song of the sphere is a siren song
whose purposes we cannot plumb;
it began as a whisper
but soon grew strong, a call
we cannot withstand for long.
we ought not go where we would be led,
yet who does not follow will soon be dead.