Tuesday, October 27, 2015
He thought He had made himself perfectly clear:
Let there be lust.
But where there's a will, there's a way
to misunderstand, to make tragic
puzzles of shame and fruit
from lovely ambiguities He had always felt.
No wonder He receded
farther than the stars, farther
than the white room of Emily Dickinson.
He'd had such hopes for the garden:
a slow eureka of tongues in understated moonlight,
rosy virtuosities at dawn, even the pink
loneliness at noon the right hand heals.
Thus, He greeted the first tenants
of the flesh, then paused beside the pear.
He wanted to confide a brazen sweetness ---
the short, slippery slope
He had made for them