by Brent Austin
Adam was a god of stone,
Stronger than the 20th century of men,
His hide was of fine tobacco,
His gut was the black twisting road,
In his eye the stars swarmed alive
Like termites in old oak.
He made a sound like
Heard only by the wilds around
When he died alone
Mt. Rainer was a monolith,
Rock, being a more modest medium than man,
He stared at ol’ Fugi across the sapphire coast
And smiled at Kilimanjaro.
His arms or hands did not trouble him now
No prayer escaped his craggy lip
No men or beast trod upon him.
No mercy in his breast,
He lived on and on