When the Cherry
rustles above her head
she hardly realizes
why she leaves
her clothes on the rocks,

passes a hand absently
through water
as if smoothing
an infant’s forehead.
Instead she takes the fruit pressed into her hand and watches the bloody stone wet her fingers.
Wasn’t sweetness always a symbol for their falling.
She walks with the man along the river bank until they come to know the sore places in the soles of their feet, the fish knifing away.
Under the currents every death moves in time towards them, each cliché is soothed into language as if there were no way to limit Paradise, other than this that has already happened.

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