the making of Eve (AnnMarie)

Bear-basalt, dure boweled, cored into and ground
      to no avail; earth nailed
down as if some unhalf-lifed, louring, plannish-pig triumphed.
      Fricts. Defies not with mollities.
Thus question, thus quickling uptest,
      wheresoever surface
topographies, drear steppe veneers, landscrapes,
      testitry and flaunt.
Plains openly appetent, rivers with dry bed taunt, all
      dream for want of something more. Sea,
vedic, pre-presumptative, underscores, transmogrifies
      its vast vellum underbelly to ripple.
Little then from hard has come. Small calls.
      Her voice, wet in cresseted asking,
brings forth rise, shore - banks, turns, forks, side issues,
      deciduous decideings.
These how needy, how so ripely imploring, how so raw;
      ready this world to be logicked
away, steadied by hand, by law. Yet the east blore bluffits
      up a passage. Scores.
Lichens, mosses, grasses, ferns, incompossible in strict
      land terms, turn flora, crawl
sunwards, spawn tree. Ah that you should be asking me
      for the stark making of her!
She smells apple before she senses tongue. She knows
      neither rib nor caul.
Brille blink slink, no noetic cetacean death preferable
      to menses; unmarried she
engages. Thinks, bites, falls to defensive argumentation.
      Time presses a momentary
vulnerary inculcation: hips joined, eyes sindicated, legs
      four. Severed, they run
for cover. Worse, much worse, your lush alibi is
      flawed, forever formulaic and blood brailles
                                                                           each brother.