Sunday in the backyard
             with the New York Times,
the missus in her baggy pants,
             but, too, the faded yellow cap,
and watching her bend
             to split the sack
of fertilizer—Gold Rush King—
             and plunge her fingers in, in…

If Genesis says, Lo, this is desire,
             where it begins,
I am its newest testament, flesh
             and almost music, addled
and almost dirt, all of it
             the Garden—take off your watch—
where shiver of wind through the redbud
             and the redbud bows.