Ann Horn

Stripped in the presence of him for whom pretense is offense, bared intentions stand stark- till He wraps me with him in graveclothes, whitened by blood. . . . . Continue Reading »

In primal garden the tree stands laden, splendor consummate, grace-rooted, owned by him who warns, don’t eat or sure you’ll die. Yet you, arrogant Adam in us all, grasp prerogativesnever due. Thrust out, bedeviled, you stumble . . . . Continue Reading »