Two Books (again)

Back in 2009, Phillip A Ellis published one of my poems at his sorely-missed journal Since the site is now a thing of the past, I thought I’d trot out Two Books for another day in the sun.

Two Books

If a sudden, strange amnesia

were to befall us all,

and a fresh new generation,

true tabula rasa children,

sired of ultimate innocence,

were to rise,

they would laugh

and shake their bell-clear heads

to read dusty tales of risen corpses

and disproportionate paternal

anger over stolen fruit.

And down the years,

when one of them unsure

took up an old book

from which he began to glean a trust

in the idea of a lonely being

who created man

exactly as he still appeared,

who drowned all but two

of every kind

and who still monitored silently,

keeping daily scores for all,

the others would set this person down

and hand him another book,

one not yet written when

our own antecedents

first entertained such ideas.

Therein he would find

unshakeable solace

in the knowledge that

of all possible permutations

of individual life,

his own came about

when uncountable others did not.

Seek awe in that

and he need never seek it

elsewhere again.