press your ears to the green
of your eden. listen
to hell, its realness. it is the feeling
that I write from. a distant burn
that blinks in the blackened
pages of his chest
as a star—only a piece
of the map that has led his heart
to yours, only a sliver to be scrapped
by sunrise. I could speak of this:
his garden, the teeth around its margins,
or the way I waded near its grin,
with both eyes unbuttoned & my soft
heart worn inside-out. but your flesh
is ivory, & where it tapers, a key
to his own. but your throat is flute
enough to tread through his walls. listen.
I will speak of the wild heart
holding you. I have touched it
with my shadows, the deep
rays of my dreams. I have been
to its shrubs that whirl about
like wicks, the ponds full of laughter,
& the caves with leaping
tongues. they are mystery
& aplenty. I could not quench them,
but you will, you will. if one
day, as you lay in his fields,
I stumble over his sky like a word
on fire. remember,
love, to make of me,
a better wish.
