Adam sat naming everything he’d miss.
He couldn’t quite explain
Why he was doing this
Or how he drew such pleasure from the pain

Of his enumerations: snowdrops twice
As vibrant from the view
Outside of paradise,
And paradisiacal birds with curlicue

Tail feathers drooping in foreboding loops,
And howler monkeys calling
To other howler troops,
The shade trees and the footpaths and the falling

Fruit, unforbidden, he was meant to eat—
To think of losing it
Made every bite more sweet,
So he indulged such thinking as he bit,

Grateful that loss was merely nomenclature,
A term to understand,
And reveled in his nature
As Eve approached him, something in her hand.