First Fig

before

i could devise

a myth of beforeness

of knowing and desire sitting

bare in the

hand—

I tore it open already

something in me tore it—

the same thing that walks back

to see again the wet peeled stomach

of the fawn beside the trail

tore it

then laid it

somewhat sorry in a 

white reflecting bowl

doubling back to the ruptured dead

its branchlike elbows

there is a way to hold your tongue

not to taste

but in my kitchen

the two halves in the bowl

give up their secret

smelling of wet stone

sing me a short song of

sucking the marrow out

don't doubt that what holds

us together like a

raindrop's skin

proves

to be

also

black crepe

and cling to the teeth