Eden is lost, but the kitchen is here. It marks the end of our sadness. The rest: God’s pessimism. This could be a bar in Buckhead where bartenders labor in poverty but not despair. See, one lays her head on a rail as if a doorway. Outside a dog snarls at a mole, shadows begin to take us leaf by leaf, two boys with sticks enact stories of death and war, above them a rose shines like a light. Today, as I attempt to split the winter wood, pine sap stains articulate the moment. Today, the soul leaves the body. |
Finally some work gets done. |