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Poem	Since my wife was born she must have eaten the equivalent of two-thirds of the original garden of Eden. Not the dripping lush fruit or the meat in the ribs of animals but the green salad gardens of that place. The whole arena of green would have been eradicated as if the right filter had been removed leaving only the skeleton of coarse brightness. All green ends up eventually churning in her left cheek. Her mouth is a laundromat of spinning drowning herbs. She is never in fields but is sucking the pith out of grass. I have noticed the very leaves from flower decorations grow sparse in their week long performance in our house. The garden is a dust bowl. On our last day in Eden as we walked out she nibbled the leaves at her breasts and crotch. But there's none to touch none to equal the Chlorophyll Kiss
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