inventing themselves in lowdown language

uncertain of the reality of every thing

called by serpents and wonders

mauve and striped and wild

yet blue outside the walls

their tone full of giving

winter inside Sunday

every day in the morning

staying quiet in the early dawn

finding their niche in a particular day

awakening from their own dreams

they find themselves among you

neither one self nor an other

sounding their open notes

giving no offense to the sun

their verbs in the present tense

not just some body, not some thing

this pulsing blue vein of speech

all of these pronouns

this harvest of light

we enter their garden

‘Yes, darling, it’s a snake’

then they offer us the apple

so we can become human again

met by the other on this bare ground

with shared language made here

out of the husks of old words