Dearest mother, for us all. Our body is built not of hers, but our life is.

What had the likes of me to do with the likes of Adam?
Yet by after-whim or black humor of Him we were thrown together,
clay seen and glaze of moon. . . .
Then Adam nearly drove me mad- my original gaping letter-man,
docile as a stamp and bland as logic flapping forever the divine right
of his real estate at my obvious lack of properties.
I tried at first to please,
opened my box of miracles for him;
he only wanted to hoe the peas.
He wanted his birds in his hand.
All mine gladly beat round the bush.
I wove an arbor, bindweed and angels' bane; he wouldn't enter in

A secondary heading!

Her gates are gates of death,
and from the entrance of the house she sets out towards Sheol.
None of those who enter there will ever return, and all who possess her will descend to the pit.

• He wouldn't lie under my crazy quilts or improvise. He'd rather die.
  He had the Word,
  had it from on high, while I,
  previous to alphabets, superfluous as ampersand,
  curled on chaos still my edges blurred.
  Gardens are made for orderers,
  gardeners made to order,
  but I am disorderable, the first trespassor.
  So as Adam was carefully hedging his betes
  and hugging the hedge,
  and while angels were warring and setting
  God's teeth on edge,
  misfit and mislaid, I fled.
  I gave a damn.
  And left my first love sucking his green thumb .