As it was Written

Downeys, hatches, and other hosts

Tend pickets with crawling vine and fig balm,

From where Sexes would be shame-sprung

Into the furnace and hardened like clay.

For the Raven there is no briar but shade in the fig tree,

Where, hidden, he waits for the caterpillar,

Stomach led upon fruit through the fog.

Both will be nourished noon parting.

Thus evening whispers over the myrtle,

and convulsing vine rattles the fence.

Blossom and seed fall from limb and feeder,

to the crimson tip of experience damp from mourning.

Sixto Mendez