I woke again to nothing but strewn parts,
the wreckage of this life.
It’s been many days since I heard a voice crackle through to me
through the miles, as if I waited for angels
to settle down and take these hands.
Some nights I can almost make it out,
beyond the two gray orbs of this world, my eyes in the sky,
and can almost hear the far off choir of human voices.
Stranded like this, here, by the smoldering expanse
of greenish sea and crying, green leaves
and squat, greenish things, it is all a green hued reflection
of what was familiar. The reddish fruit here
also tastes forbidden.
The last thing she said was she would wait,
but I have no doubt that I will wander this garden
with no loss of rib or delicate kiss,
and salvation in my own hands,
a daily movement as if praying.