All day the eye is given red:
by rock, by dust and dying metal.
No wonder that in sleep the mind
slinks back to foliage,
seeks flowing water.

Likewise the dream that you are back
from your caffe latte south;
we lie out under the stars,
I listen to you devising
fresh constellations, new star signs.

I wake to a sky that's way too bright,
a chaos of clothes and paper,
a headache like a drought upon the brain.

Dateline Eden
There was no expulsion: only atrophy.
...