There is copper roofing at the back of God’s house.

In austerity,

a body lies unknown

upon a garden detached from evergreens.

There are no fruits left to consume,

but tiles, floorless senses—

all perishable rooms.

My body lies upon her chest,

her lungs stretched out

upon the edges of a fevered bed—

she breathes and then twitches,

upon kettles that are sutured shut.

Perhaps she’s half-awakened.

Her imperilled eyes are powered by hunger,

and I feel that I love her—

now both hunger and breath,

are shared by two.

There is copper roofing at the back of God’s house

and she’s making breakfast.

Overcast, minus ten degrees,

in the rudimentary eating of a sudden death.

Out of the ground

the Lord God made grow

every tree pleasant to the sight

and good for food,

but she’s half-tied to my nothings—

and we’re hungered now.

We were half-tied, nothing, nothing—

There is nothing but starvation.

I can only perish in spiritual retreats,

submitted within her body—

We were half-tied, nothing, nothing.

screw all nothings,

but a craving of her own.

Screw the tiles,

the floorless senses,

screw Eden,

screw the room.

Shall I not live by bread alone,

but by every word that proceeds out of her mouth?

Of the perishable breath of life —

perchance the Lord did not breathe into my nose

instead I was born out of her ribs,

as an afterthought.