OUR TIME IN EDEN

H-eaven and eden are lost.
your inventory of the earth
given away.

"Eat of this fruit," she said. "Break into its flesh with all your heart.
Feel it give way beneath the weight of endless appetite,
of everything you rest your hands on."

and yes, this means her too. this means
the rock skipping now across the lake, your hand
still poised where the two were parted.

this means the flowers you picked,
already browning in the vase
by the window, in the sun.

this mean also your hands themselves
while you stand rubbing them, warding off the cold.
look out before you, this is home to you now,

this unharvested rock is what you have left.
but be glad. it will not perish. never the fuel.
never itself the fir-e.



Sh-ould heaven make a sound, it would be this . . .
or, whispering, for example.

did you not stop to listen just now? were you not
convinced for just that moment you might hear something?

even now you catch yourself just about to lean toward it,
eyes looking up, where you have always known heaven to be.

it is an infinite task squandering love, letting it spill from your heart
into the things you lean on most: your good looks. your hands. your

undying faith each will be returned unharmed.
name once when this has happened?

before i brought you here, you were looking at the clouds, counting them,
believing they could hold the lives you gave them: sheep, birds, the the fire in your heart.

and now, your whispering soul, the one whose lips press against the back of your throat
urging you to speak though you resist, is growing faint.

it too will drift into nothing, another cloud lost across the horizon,
another lost opportunity to cup your ear and lean your head toward your deepest desir-e.