as though only that ever
needed to be said
Even before first light
deer graze in the yard
scampering fawn
follows its mother
after dawn
the ruins of paradise from
a denied future
unwilling to be perfect
in our imperfection
blood moon
this endless denial of
the Triune
How will you grasp
“the four corners of his desk“
like a god unchained
severed fingers that once held
the master carpenter’s tools
potter’s field
the fresh-turned earth for
the one that won’t yield
another chance
to unclench the iron grip
upon the wheel
sunrise
the realization
that all die
Frank J. Tassone 
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