In seasons we sprout,
dressed to the nine
                               in compliments under
flocked skies of abandoned webs. The jaws of breeding

snapped shut
around the ankles of his inky blue wingtips
                                    her glossy leopard skin high-heels.

Forgive us tree of knowledge, we have recreated you
                        fonder in the image of a concrete rose,
a bull freed from its matador,
a thorn on the vinyl to cycle the serenade.

Please listen--envy the blister silence,
it sweats in the mind of the innocent.
The days of milk and fruit are over.
We are ready to depart the branches of thee,
                            feel the glassy snow beneath our feet