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Amber
Polished lumps
of translucent pasts
dot the display case
like globs of spilt syrup,
suspended cells,
holding the unwary,
immortality their penalty
for the sweet temptation
of tasting from the wrong tree
long before God put his hand
to Adam’s clay.
They are pilgrims then
from that first garden
with wings and legs
perfectly intact but folded,
not as if flying or crawling
but falling some great distance
or carried by primal winds,
or just sleeping, dreaming
whatever small dreams
visit small creatures
in Paradise?
Summer’s end
I unsnap the plastic globe
of the porch light.
Through the warm months,
a seventy-five watt moon
as delicious in its way
as Eden’s deadly pitch
drew those that flew there,
now singed and clumped
like tobacco ash in a pipe bowl.
I blow them out with my breath,
Burnt offerings to the winds
their forbearers rode
in the first days.
—Lou Masson
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