February 20, 2009


We remembered passion is good fruit,
not sleep with innocence snake.


the doing of undoing
give being history

Unpick. Duende.

There’s a hole in my underwear, Eve, old girl,
the garden was our lovemaking.

I didn’t care apples. You were thirsty.

I gave you fruit, would have given anything,
just kiss. All hell broke loose.

You disappeared. Love was impossible, dreamt, illegal.
Walls flew up. Buildings appeared.

Eden was eons ago. Galaxies apart.
Dreamt before it happened.

Still, under that tree lips yield to ripe desire

and hissing.

No comments: