How crimson falls indecision as it bricks up her lips,
hitting them, Adam says, ‘It’s difficult,’
‘What is?’ she opens them, questioning,
parting their red sea—stereophonic,
louder than silence after “I Love You”—
clearing out all of her compulsion to
not respond to men when they want to show
her even oceans of words swallowed still
follow etiquette, he notices when
she speaks, she tastes his unacknowledged kiss;
‘Adam,’ her monumental mouth quivers,
‘I can’t do this.’ How crimson murders him

as from Adam’s arsenal she pilfers
what colours his art in all of its rich
mystery, and now, here she rips from him
his reason to be; painting him so bad
Adam can’t comprehend how she managed
to water down his arteries, clog them
with a garden no one had been wanting
again to be in; communicating
becomes daunting when your host does not change
and Eve, like a snake, swallows anything;
never knowing of households their sweet taste,
going so far as to think love is bait.