Before Eve left the garden, she tugged Adam’s sleeve and said,

One more, one more. You would think it was the pomegranate

branch she wanted, the round, drab bush dribbling myth

above a tedious brook or to retrieve a copy of The Temptation of Baghdad,

the novel she kept hidden in the rattler’s den. Perhaps the absurd

peacock’s ritual or chameleon. The elm or the oak. The cedars of

Lebanon. Ulysses? The buttock of the master on his side. You would

think to leave sword fern or limpet or humpback or rose would be the

definition of loss. England. Oh, England. Sweat of afternoon on alpaca

palm. The Nepalese. The world before and after. You would bet on

the ease of knowing God. Ontological prayer. Yes. Idleness. Check.

No ubiquitous errand. All darkness visible. Proust? Eve tugged on

Adam’s sleeve, the fabric new to her, coarse like a broadleaf maple

tucked behind a barrel, a hard/soft gown Plato would wear to the

baths. One? One, she said.

Writing Poetry Susan Stenson pdf


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