PAMELA GARVEY

Paradise

Paradise is not
                        a garden.

It is prior, and raw:

a tendril blizzard, a blizzard
of sand fleas,
                        the Cyclops sun
dilated; the whole sky
jaundiced
                        and trumpeting.

A glittering silence
that would suspend the heart
in formaldehyde.  

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   Contributor’s notes

   Brochure for Exile
   Eve’s Fall Through Technology
   Paradise

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