Love wasn’t cruel then, woman
didn’t exist yet, it was just
Adam and a pool running in
a garden, a river he took
to bed laughing, drinking in his
reflection, as if god confused
myths, that before losing a rib,
Adam was himself Narcissus.
Paradise had no walls then, no
angels installed with flaming swords
to ward off exiles, an island
called to its shores what denial
of this world labeled Eden, its
only secret its existence,
fools not knowing if being led
by heart or mind brought its being.
Incense weeps ignorance of its
evenings, remembering only
the first man sent to deflower
himself in the thickness of his
own sweet fragrance, fists like spiders
curling in retreat from each death
he had them both perform on his
person, a purely formed prison.
Fleeing his predestination,
Adam greeted love at the gates
unlocked by solitude and his
burdensome beasts of lecherous
thoughts moving a feast to table,
affronting a mind designed to
dig in only when god advised.
By blistering instinct, not his
nor by the upper-management
of this sphere nine layers beneath
æther, Adam sinned that sin no
one again until Onan would,
that good laying on of hands which
begets from holy wood fire’s kiss.