It was never the fruit that mattered. Sweet flesh of apricot only hid a stone smelling of bitter almond. We split that fruit without tasting; now bursting seed will divide hardened earth, baked brick; eastward, on the plains of Shinar.
Dry plains in the ancient places remember fired clay and tar-jointed steps. Our tower is pitched in spiral links; this stair will ascend right-handed to God’s heaven. Twist life’s coil taut in the hidden place; it will fall back on itself like a serpent, ready to strike.
O Mighty Hunter! We have reached for your shadow: Now translate for us in a tongue no longer ours or your own. Before you fly to Assyria, tell us: Did you touch the sky?