We have suffered, you and I.
               In the evenings
               whatever residual light remains
               snaps shut like an alligator's jaw; 
               and in the morning, the sun
               lances down again like an arrogant scalpel.
               In between, though we held each other furtively,

               as if it were something criminal, the garden was still un-recognizable.
                        How can that be?
                        It was our former home.

Once again, I emphasize: We have suffered; although we tried
our best to be original, and from that tree
we ate only the most lustful of its products.

                                  So why not be honest?
                                  We have sinned. As a result we've been punished.
                                  Very simple.   Anticipated.

We shall never be graced,  or graceful. 
Whatever.
And we are trapped, it seems,
not by our bodies, or our bodies' needs,
but by  tales and the myths
we were fed while  sleeping:  ignominious deeds.
Orphic things, like Titans eating their children.
And to expurgate them should be considered our most significant requirement
before minds' rivers can be forded.

So what do you think: Has this not been enough
of "heaven's" torment? And even
though this bodily imprisonment
is not quite as bad as it's advertised,
 isn't it really about time we got on with the living?

All in all, however, I must say
it was worth it: that other
fruit  mere promises: synthesized vitamins 
biochemical flummery, a mumbo jumbo of snake oil fakery.

But what we got
left us gaping, gasping, gallivanting around a luscious strawberry universe
in absolute delight,
peopling galaxies with imaginary aliens.

Now we differentiate between subtleties,
stand in awe of it all, like as if we are pre-adolescents 
watching meteors, our fruit's succulence
dripping down our chins unnoticed.

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