Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Bodies the Stems


Breathing in the garden malady
I feel I've spoken too much
I shudder as this sun kills another
The flowers are frying
Now I'm feeling the garden
as just some regal clutter
We are feigning fruit-trees
like towers between dwellings
what comes before me and
the man I love is a hedge
the gardener planted in summer
with leaves that won't die
are not dying
Perhaps you find me sour
Uprooting and replanting
the corpses they're stems
I'm afraid of them growing
sharp shearing, the trimming

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