What had the likes of me
to do with the likes of Adam?
Yet by after-whim
or black humor of Him
we were thrown together, clay
seen and glaze of moon. . . .
Then Adam nearly drove me
mad-- my original gaping
letter-man, docile as a stamp
and bland as logic
flapping forever the divine right
of his real estate
at my obvious lack
of properties.
I tried at first to please,
opened my box of miracles for him;
he only wanted to hoe the peas.
He wanted his birds in his hand,
All mine gladly beat round the bush.
I wove an arbor, bindweed and angels' bane;
he wouldn't enter in.
He wouldn't lie under my crazy guilts
or improvise. He'd rather die.
He had the Word,
had it from on high, while I,
previous to alphabets, superfluous as ampersand,
curled on chaos still my edges blurred.
Gardens are made for orderers,
gardeners made to order,
but I am disorderable, the first trespasser.
So as Adam was carefully hedging his bets
and hugging the hedge,
and while angles were warring and setting
God's teeth on edge,
misfit and mislaid, I fled.
I gave a damn.
And left my first love sucking
his green thumb.
