In the garden we plucked heavenly fruit
and slept in the chaste shade, contemplating
the untouchable loveliness of our flesh. We shared
dreams like kisses and marveled as they
formed a single body, so it seemed I was you and
you were me. We studied each other like rare
stones and like rare stones we hid
each other in the satchels of our hearts.
If only we could return to that place.
But we let poison swelter under our tongues,
savoring the unknown pleasure. . . . The garden is gone.
It fled like a vision at sun-up, so now we
rise with ashes and cruel lamentations on our
lips. The garden has become a ghost which rides at
night, and can be neither begged nor reasoned with —
nor ever snatched again.