Eve .1

Perhaps it’s my sign – an untold marvel, to encompass each stream, in rich forests they dwell, and of mountain range, to dwell in the peaks and lower still – to cower in dread and leap to moons breadth – and will they pace still further? – desperate are they who wander, their leap half secured, their cosmic sanity distilled while my sisters laugh. Glorious in them, those soft skinned apes with death their equal – how I exist without recourse – to become less – to become everything and nothing. And beneath fills that abyss of dust, a disorientated mass huddled and bowed, watch their lewd expressions, how dear … becomes in the birth of fruit less foul. Perform this act my son, speak in human.