In this marrow season,
trunks tarnished, paused,
I am garden. Am before.
Asleep. Then the changes:
placental, myrrhed. Wet hem
when you appeared.
What did your body ever have to do
with me? In my astonished mouth,
enskulled molars guessed,
though as yet I did not know you.
You sprung. You now intransitive,
tense with heaven.
Gardener, which of us said do not touch.
Which one of us was undressed?