Possession is nine tenths of the law,

where I come from, where city met meadows,

in lots of rubble and praying mantis.

I was sent from there, with my dirty hands,

to dig to soil through the crumbling asphalt,

to discover species long thought extinct,

to name the garden tended in neglect.

Or is wind the origin to the call?

The sick sunrise, the desert sand.

Is genesis a stale breath of aspic?

A prick of nausea in the shallows?

A formal invitation to deep waters?

Where the seas of our lovers, as by the tide,

may be taken as possessions from inside.