John Biscello

It was no longer Eden,
but the bones of Eden.
They looked around, they glummed
and chimped, they moped and wondered.
Then what they did, ably penitent,
refugees in their own backyard,
they screwed to no avail. They
screwed and screwed, the strident
conjugation of the lonely and the damned,
tried to screw their way out of
and past the desert spleening blues,
tried to abolish Memory in briny paroxysms.
Was it like that?
A constant and necessary
giving and receiving of fire through flesh
and flinty roil?
Did the seeds pop and sputter
and spin like so many disco grains
among soil and waste?
It was no longer Eden,
but the bones of Eden.
Out of the dust
came the first ever
loveletter between bodies
and husk.