Beauty is imperfect and messy. God

               is imperfect and messy and the wild

               garden overflows with too much

fruit. Eve’s a little messed up these days.

               She’s a ball of nerves from that frigging

               apple. Adam’s buying her St. John’s Wort,

telling her to see the doctor, take a pill.

               Beauty is the darkness we are

               made of.  She said this once, in a book,

or a poem, or maybe it was a hiss she heard

               when the weather changed.

               Adam is trying to hold her up

with his arms, but she’s aching

               for more. Even Eve doesn’t understand

               what she’s feeling so she leans into him.

Either way, it’s Sunday morning

               and the sinners stay in bed, reach

               beneath the bedsheets for skin,

for a little more of anything, imperfect

               and messy, this wild

               garden overflowing with too much.