In Days of Peleg______________
We wear a war-torn mantle
the rags of a planet given to men
image of crust that is broken
in the days of Peleg
and in Rome
again—
fractures made on plaster when
nails are hammered in,
a family tree with
branches drawn
like fault lines
between the
images:
the sin.
We each have a leather-bound story
and have gone our distant way
each in a new Babel place
telling our children
to pray.
Green leaves would be our healing
but in that autumn keen, we
put on our winter-coats
and were never
ourselves
again.
© 2007 Douglas John Donaldson
