Spring again. Wet April calls the blue
from the sky, would give me names
for all the green things writhing from the earth’s

An unlit world knows nothing of desire,
said God to Adam, pointing to his hip;
The pleasure’s naming what you most require,

When the last girl came
to the pile of leaves, she chose
a green one for her mother, brown

We missed the point: the red gash
of a hood was a door in the forest,
a mouth to the unknowable. We wanted