adam and eve in dunn woods

Walking with a soft step, I go to see them.

Past the yellow lamps with frosted glass, lit stairwells
in the dark; through the dull roar of ventilation,
with sticky tires of lonely cars in the night I walk,
walk with a shadow but no company.
It is near midnight, but the air is cool at best, little wind--
winter has forgotten itself.

But now I leave concrete: step off the path
and onto those few matted leaves of the season.
There is a bench - 1906 -
three adjoined seats like a throne.
And now, a path from nowhere, and two children--
lit by a light on a wooden post.

His arms are open with pleading hands--
She is more cautious, more closed. Mouths open,
they must be speaking -- not talking, no,
and not moving. But pleading, questioning,
(their faces are full of unvoiced yearnings),
stoicly seeing and judging, like gods.

I return to this place for their refusal to explain themselves.
They carry no sign, no date, and do not move--
but stare into each others eyes, oddly far apart.
They wait for something, still on their misshapen tomb,
now the home of spiders, crickets. But suddenly
I am struck: They are not children at all.

They are woman and man.

· · · · · · · ·

When I awake, an hour has passed,
and the mild night has grown cold, freezing my fingers.
I turn away, and the leaves follow me home.