That apple you had from Eden
Is half-gotten down the pelvis
Of your throat
I just left a paint mark
To trace back in the event of fall
When nests are younger than supposed
Not loosing myself in the dearth of crayons
Its when the brown Vitruvius
Jumped out the tangle of cotton
And drilled in me fireflies
And a stark song hacked of his trunk.
Its when silence drummed aloud
The seven symphonies of sin
And the bed whistled
at Pleasure walking down..