The Breakfast Dance

We break our fast

On the sweet fruits of the Garden –

Not the one Adam and Eve left behind,

But rather the one which grew wild in their absence,

The one whose meandering paths have turned to woodland,

Where the animals who Eve named so long ago

Have forgotten their title,

Or elsewise their names have morphed

Into the uncanny,

The deer having become Vermeer,

The goldfish having turned into Van Goghs,

And the platypi, God’s most cherished creations,

Having reached some Platonic ideal

Where their names are formless,

And their bodies have taken the form of finches,

And they, too,

Eat of the fruits of the Garden,

Each one sweeter than the last,

And each bearing within

Untamable knowledge.

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