When I got back from the game house
I read Joan Murray, with water
and a magnum and heard of strange
adults and children and became

with her, once again sure of life.
Events in the short term with me
as a focal point betray none
too soon that things are just going.

Out of a context brought by words
I live in a basic form of
eden. I feel the cold ice knot
of cream melt on my teeth. Surely

things were occasionally wrong
even in that garden? I’m grown
simple, hearing the dishes clean.
I have sore eyes, and my ears twinge

and my naked feet are sore souls
of the carrying of bodies
in a concert beyond of thought.
But my morning should bring a day

I don’t dread and sad moments pass
like memories over long years
work of neuronal altering.
Oh Joan, come back to life with me