Adam (poem)

Adam


Blunder out of Eden, instead of fading into something forgotten;
and take her with you, but she won't look at you.

Not anymore?

Not ever.

What do I do without Eve?

Appropriate.

In my living room, with a ceiling sprung 18 feet from the floor, I can hear every sonic deviation
from my mouth repeated twice, as I put names to groups of words on paper over my mantle.

I need her.

You must stay where you are. Walk on cold floorboards, push them down so they moan
loneliness and make your legs vibrate with it.

I need her.

Not anymore.

In the midst of the apocalypse I'll come through her door, or any door,
to get to her.

She won't know you.