Word (Richard Outram)

Man talking to Himself upon the floor
Of Eden's disenchanted Forest knows
How He is spoken only to Adore
The motionless, articulated Rose
Informed of unadulterated flame
That, perfect, burned above the topmost bough
And did not suffer change, where He became
The constant Sacrament of here and now:
Nevertheless, He listens. Wherein He
Replied in kind until, as is foretold,
Once named as One Another, He may be
Incarnate Fire and glancing up, behold
The flash of azure in the threshing trees'
Simultaneous interstices.