The Inverted Garden Where Time Flows Backward Toward Paradise
The Inverted Garden—Where Time Flows Backward Toward Paradise
In Eve's hand the unbitten poisoned fruit floats like a red sun burning,
Naked-dressed in their false innocence they dance through the inverted week,
Time flows backward—Thursday becomes Wednesday and Wednesday melts into Tuesday soft,
The woman's insomnia keeps her awake on the green-flowered bed of their paradise.
Cynical Sunday watches from above how they refuse to bite the drug of sin,
Her-paradise and his-paradise—personal gardens where the apple remains virgin,
Nature has ripened but hasn't fallen yet—everything hangs suspended in eternal waiting,
Her breasts set fire to the surrounding air—his throat is a promontory toward magic sky.
Poemsaying when they speak—poemsilence when they're quiet—their lips have divine resounding power,
The river revives the dead sea—waves chattering northward and southward on their diurnal skin,
Paralightnings and parawhispers protect them from thunderbolts and poisonous whispers heavy,
Milk tears flow from her eyes—nourishing the earth with the white of pure love.
Their kiss is borrowed rut—debt paid in the routine of sweet eternal remembering,
The paranoerotic of their love—mixture of fear and passion and absurd beautiful courage,
Their life is thin thread—their destiny undestiny hangs by a thread of hope fragile,
Their verb it snows incense from blood—their words are living sacred sacrifice.
Naked-dressed they remain in their garden where the unbitten fruit tempts them gently forever,
But they choose to live in the inverted week—where sin has not been committed,
Her-paradise and his-paradise—the magic place where time no longer matters at all,
Poemsaying poemsilence—they are the living poem that refuses the ending and chooses the beginning.
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