Eden

I am not Adam

but I was naked in a garden

earlier this morning, which was not

the first morning of human existence,

though it seemed fresh enough

with dewy fronds and a choir of opening flowers,

and there I was, nothing but skin,

walking around the edge of the pool

carrying a green watering can by the handle.

I’m not William Blake either,

he who liked to sit naked with his Catherine

on the enclosed lawn next to their house

waiting for another tree to sprout golden wafers.

Now, there’s a man who behaved

as if he actually were the first man—

every English dawn unprecedented,

every copper plate a new horizon.

But I did stand there today,

encircled by vegetation,

peering over the low wall of this poem

at the two naked Blakes in their chairs,

who looked back at me with surprise,

a union that lasted for only a tick

before I exited through a gate, returning

to a world of trousers, wooly sweaters, and silly hats.