The noble savage
roasting the brain of Rousseau
in its skull, eyes alert
as flames, inquisitive
of the dangerous dark –
this is the Adam
in an atheist’s Eden
before the fall
into shop and office.
As much of a myth
as the Bible’s first son
mud-spawned and breathed upon.
Voices ring like swords
together, vicious
under the studio lights.
And the true Adam?
The missing link?
It awoke to yet
another morning
under a slightly younger sun,
scratched itself and shivered.
Sometime in an afternoon
a spark was struck –
from the sky?, from the friction
of impulses rubbing on each other? –
and a creature blinked,
looked around, looked up
and went on.
Bright fossils leap in the mind
as the bonehunter scratches the dirt.
