Back to the Garden
Feet touch the charred and salted
ground
That once
bore fruit or forest.
Hands sift Saharan sand like the
memory
Of a lion
on the veldt.
Eyes open, letting the dream glide
back,
To join
four-hoofed ghosts
And the
lustful stirrings
That echo
off a January wind
That came
up warm, from the south.
The air is textured, flavoring memory:
From the
taste of a woman's body,
The rich
mucus of her pubic lips,
To the
sounds of the dew-rich woods,
Dripping
in the morning sunshine.
Clean, like the wind;
Clear, like the winter-blue
Of a not-quite-earthly
sky;
Alive, like Lilith's lips,
Or Eve's
after sex
But before the knowledge;
Ancient as the animal memory
Or the
reincarnated soul.
Ghosts bare their teeth in smiles
or laughter
As eyes focus upward,
Carefully
avoiding every sign
On the
human-marred ground.
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