No Wall
John Poch
January 1, 2000
The noon's eclipse was not the only omen. Out of the east, a ripping like a saw pushed once, a ragged breath, a lion claw tearing the veil that separated common from consecrated. Neither man nor woman could repair it. It was not a flaw. Wood groaned but held as if in rigid awe of weight and a wet soaking in. So human— to ask what caused the small quake after all, for who could tell what things would happen? The daylight saw no seraphim revealed, no singing stones or trees in praise, no wall lay fallen. Dead at last, he hung there, open as one who would be buried in the world.
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