Wednesday, January 24, 2007

the garden

there is a garden
buried in the odd angles of the world
foggy in wilder scents
home to a man unknown to himself

go make yourself a spyer's nest
wrapped careful in a water oak's arm
high over that stoned wall
for a bit of thievery

he'll sit on the moldy earth
between some red camellias
for he favors sun and heat
yellow skies in dank summer

he'll whistle baroque tunes
cleffed in odd keys
they'll make grimace buttery flies
and break their eggs

he may jump and jig
so hold your startle in a fist
don't shake the leaves
or unquiet the airs

he's forgotten days and lovers
memory has let him loosed
unguided or held unsparing
in his stillborn time

he'll bring a tray when all is late
steamy with brown coffee
soft sweet cakes
his hands powder white in sugar

notch the days in your hiding
his hours are slipshod
they'll twist you into knotted reverie
and you'll wake beside him

in the garden


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