“The moral basis of Poetry is the accurate naming of the things of God.”
And so I spend my days playing Adam,
not Eve, though like her I see the world
with eyes open—worms in the apple, snakes
in the trees, the miseries that unfurl
themselves against the blue paradise of sky—
no stranger to the daily pains and aches
that make us human and fallen, a damn
sight less lovely than we once were. We die,
Horatio—that’s the tragic fact
of the life we’re given and the life I paint.
There’s no perfection, there’s no pure act
that can save us. Even poetry ain’t
redemption. Still, I choose to waste my days
with lost Eve and Adam naming His praise.