He dreams of Ivy
     in Eve's garden,
     molds his clay soul
     around excuses,
     forms his lips
     for the fruit.

Almost home.

Coyotes laugh
& I run
through this orchard
of bones.
Gray-black,
they catch
blue stars
and crack
beneath me.
Oranges shine,
lost moons
in naked
forgotten trees.
I
am out of breath.