On a day expectedly pure,
the clouds white unfolding blossoms,
shade sifting sunshine to honey,
asleep beneath a fig’s
drooped foliage dense with fruit,
Adam began to scowl.
While Eve, talking with birds,
glided the bluegreen pond,
while steamy meadow drenched
his hair in wildflower fragrance,
expected, pure—suddenly
an itch spoiled everything.
A black ant blundered drunk
on smells of dew-slick grass
where yesterday’s rinds browned—
frantically it tangled
on Adam’s haired arm, thrashed there
till he, awake enough
to be alarmed that bliss
admits a luckless thing
jerked his palm and smudged the blot
fouling his rest. Eve rose
glossy from water. Adam smiled,
hurriedly wiping his arm
clean of death’s dirt. They walked,
eating figs while, folded in leaves,
slit-eyes watched, coiled and mute.
