The centuries will float to me out of the darkness. Did He notice the twisted starlight, nick the silence—they dream Between their humped forms in an envenomed cup. The throes: He cries out— Through the broken arch,
And I shall judge them.
Boris Pasternak
the crack in the arch, the storm coming on
like news? The apostles' steady breaths
of hillside sermons and deliverance.
and the garden's writhen lines, He sees
a faceless creature with reptilian eyes and gait
emerge. It offers his life vesseled
the close air swallows the sound.
Abba, the thud of fallen fruit.
the glint of hilts, the flourish of nodding plumes.
The sky over His shoulder breaks.