Thursday, December 1, 2011


August Garden

She kept secrets in March
while birds spilled the beans
and frogs egged each other on
to reveal hearts hatched
swollen and glistening.

She never cared for the
shallow attention of the
cultivator churning stillness
into cake dashed and

glazed with her frozen
smile. She made offerings to
birds. They begged standing on
broken crust and schemed future
robberies under cover of the

chaos of creepers and vines that
grew at a ridiculous rate shown in
science class on brittle film threading
through a ratcheting projector.

She drank in great gulps, head
thrown back, spilling water
that soaked through layers
and overflowed down
the length of her to pool

around her feet then vaporize on the
hottest days into a soft dream
edges erased, colors receding
with the setting sun into a paste

thick enough to spread on a slab of
tomato sliced right off the vine. She was
always glad to see me, rooted, staked and
bound there, unable to lose herself
in a crowd or at a party, command

the center of the room and laugh into
her glass or walk the rows covered over
with broad leaves that hid a world that
scuttled and mated and ate and died.

She was always attractive, reflecting
the chemistry of light shed
from the greasy smear of an Impressionists

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