Fall Made

I smear my skin with schisms of
the songs I heard at night,
tales of a God who couldn’t bear
to make the unexpressed. My skin

is pocked with signs of built
sense. I did not put it there. I
am not meant to keep it away.

I’m just the one who drags it out.

There is a limit seen
in the offspring. It was a flood.
Harvest that. Of course joy is found
in our doubt.

I am a son of Jacob. Do you dare
to speak of visions past horizons
when you don’t see the yard?
I know when the plants rise.

My scene is past the line
dividing day from night,
in the garden, in the daily.
Look there for rectitude.
The holy wears a smock.

Matt Rosen

Matt Rosen lives in Oxford, England. He is currently a PhD student in philosophy at the University of Oxford, where he works on ethics and literature. He attends the Oxford Young Adult Friends Worship Group.

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