what did you tell me about the purple rose?
and I laughed and smiled:
no body is so spare
in the absence of Adam,
in the leave-taking of Eve,
there comes a curve like belly, like windfall or slanted rain
we are coming now to the end of this beginning:
and what exactly did you expect at the end of the rainbow?
where is the ride that takes no tokens--
it won’t dye easy, the linen of my skin
above all, don’t ask me to be generous with Eden
I don’t believe in exile:
its red-lined lips,
its broken circles
desperate to uncoil themselves
For me, for lack of time, or space, let’s say ekstasis
all potential fruits
it has no thorns,
I think you said
when you touch me, feel my long hooks grappling
we idle awhile beneath these straight (slowly-bending)
each navel’s wrinkled burn of Origin
to the thick mud and the thick night that might have been our beginning
a pot of gold?
a patch of clover?
a lucky leprechaun?
the jersey that sports no
the flecked exorbitance
of your un-gendered eyes
as if the seasonal swelling and falling is reason for blush
Diaspora of leaves and limbs
(equality like severance pay)
(services dutifully rendered)
standing outside ourselves:
even a dark Kalamata olive
of the fall
its stem is bare
beneath the stubble of my crumbling nails
the plum-tree sagging
(parabola of light)
gap between bodies
and blood (carapace
or perhaps just another sticker to affix to the back of your car?
the tree that bears the multi-coloured fruit--
dyeing so difficult
(like shirts we made at camp: white circles, moon-like, in a purple sky)
trees lean heavy with the weight of myth (archetype, etc.)
where dying is difficult