The Garden of Eve

A copy of my death certificate
will read like all the others:
“Oblivious to the contracts that he made,
the contours of pain and sighs
built up to unknowable proportions
which fed the ego of his existence;
this feeling was palpable even to the wind
which guided the languages of the holy ones back
as does the sun when it forces a break
into the hearts of men.”
The tea kettle boils hot with verve
and my choice is to pour a mug full of
contradictions which prevent me from seeing
a mysterious page that is pasted
to the kitchen window for all to see.
I have a chain in my right pocket,
its weight forces me to reconsider
my journey
and I sit without a care to finish a reading
of myself today,
because it’s Sunday morning
and I have yet to reach for
a ladybug to carry with me.


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