We, like wide-eyed hapless angels,
rush to the fallen woman
on Locust Street,
having witnessed her slow-motion 
spill from stoop to sidewalk,
longing to minister to this Eve
who rebuffs all assistance
with a gritty nicotine snarl. 

A car quick-stops and two brothers 
leap out, eager to help,
insisting they are not already fallen.
This woman’s cornucopia of sin 
has carved itself into hard lines—  
a perpetual frown, discontent
drooping from the corners of her mouth,
this mother of every Cain,
every slain Abel.
She surrendered herself 
to Lucifer in teenage rebellion. 
Having been turned on by him,
having handed him her raw, undeveloped heart,
she’s now millennia past personal regret.
Sprawled on a downward-slanting 
pavement, she rules the scene with
a side-dose of resentful accusation.

We veer toward Plum Street, 
tainted creatures in a groaning world, 
neglecting to command angels,
prone to telling ourselves 
this was all inevitable.
The sky pelts us with fierce rain,
which sizzles at our feet, 
each drop proclaiming a journey 
from chilly heights,
fixed laws of motion,
atmospheric inversion,
curve of light,
spin of electrons,
elemental bond 
of hydrogen and oxygen,
spherical motion like love—
the indelible signature of creation.