Here we find the casting
of the sacred lot,
the defruited branches
of the family tree
thundering back into life.
From nothing comes the stuff of stars—
a man walking naked on red earth,
the goat-shaped and jawless one
smiling as love leaves the garden,
sweat sweetening the land,
ones’ second born
dead in the field,
Cain caught in the screech of time,
one of consolation
building a ship in the sand.
My God, but Moses looks pale!
He does not see the walls
crumble at the trumpets’ sound,
or see the vision multiply
like kernels of wheat and barley.
The book knows no ending,
an unending revelation
painted on the skin of spotless lambs,
We are the arks of the covenant,
lamps to walk and read by.