A wound in the shoulder keeps me still. The lizards sing, the sea pours in, the night upholds my promise.
I am guarded against your scorn by a spider on the ceiling and a lizard on the wall.
Adam and Eve hang from a thorn, back to back. I want them to face each other.
I will call her out of the used-up sea. I will speak her down from the pitch of terror. She will form her body around the words of longing. She will establish her beauty on the Promise of Faithfulness.
I make this promise now. The other men say: Can you?
Do you wish to see her radiant? “She will establish her beauty on the Promise of Faithfulness.” Do you wish to see her radiant? “No, I want to see her cunt.” This ambiguity is honoured so you can bear the company.
In one form only does she recognize me, the form of wife. In every other form she is searching for her mate; she blunders past me like something going blind, a salmon or a sea turtle, and I am landscape and water, going the other way.