In the journey of you
the suckled grape, the coaxing strum
where the god that breeds knelt
and offered fruit from the failing limbs
of moist magnitudes—
from the yoke of breaths
every clutch of earth inhales.
Even in the garden you would not bow
to time’s stumbling trance,
not for the taste of blood
nor temptation of design:
and it was on you the temples rose
liberated with a grasp
of the hair beneath the sky.