could name 

things, like the threat of rattle

in the snake’s slither, the moon’s

flirtation from full-face to shadow, 

the platypus, that hybrid with a duck’s 

beak and a dam-builder’s tail.

He left the ineffable anonymous

as woman—never knew what 

to make of the rustling behind him

or the sensation of her legs 

grapevining his hips, her teeth 

poised to rip worlds from his throat 

should he try. 

He smelled bream and the rot

of mullet when she biked garden 

paths in search of other playmates.

He needed faith as little 

as she needed him, which is to say, 

as much as that fish needed its own 

two-wheeler. He was as lonely 

with his help-meet as without.

A ridiculous specimen, he woke 

with golem breath each dawn 

to design new gardens, 

then watched them ravaged 

by the north wind in the heat 

of the day.

He babbled to primates 

and cussed at parrots 

to hear them echo 

his shame. He hurled Cain’s

name at the fickleness 

of moon, but never Abel. 

He wondered at the rustling— 

foreboding images of flash 

flood and famine, metallic 

as blood on his tongue. 

Father to the first 

fratricide, he refused to go

down as the first 

to die by his own hand. 

But he weighed it daily for 930 

years, regretting every minute.

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