Tooth is the jawless maw
in beast’s paw, shining like clouds in cloudless night
that can taste the way it dances
smell the way it follows in the looking glass light.
That can feel with frozen breath,
hear the merrymaker’s drink,
and see the voice of sweet mockingbird’s trill.
Dying dusk light—sweet scent for the ages.
After Adam through the hills of Eve’s Trellis
No, stench of dusk, harbinger of decay . . .
the rotting of trees, through orchards of black.
Is the mission? The prize?
It cannot—boughs of the pine trees are shed.
Through the red trees and into the pines,
where shining sigils of winter nymph’s harp,
hear their music—beautiful yet mourning
It leapt through the dreams, snagging Adam’s thoughts
As a fawn in the shadows, watching in the dark.
Until with the morn, will moonlight’s dark creep.
A molded bell, mocking his call with silence
and he must see, before he can hear.
And the shadows sheath their glares,
buffeting his statement with rising clarity and marking the path laid bare.