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 prerogatives never due.Thrust out, bedeviled, you stumble toward that other tree, cross-beamed for . . . . Continue Reading »