Go into the garden, she says,

hurried, leaning away from me.

Something is wanting, locked to the moon -

I watched from the window, those rolling pales.

She is not with me.

 

I came to, with raspberry bitten fingers,

a vast place.  Each glance

 littered the dawn, out of reach, with lawns

sheared, transparent.

Smudged with memory, I looked for her.

 

If the garden knew, she kept quiet.

My breath, choleric, rapped the gaps;

each lunatic clasped in the dark needled trees,

and my calls, like the cancer of baying hounds,

threw fire out into the winds.

 

I stalked her; tepid waters, of what I remain -

and vacuous, thought Fear, bleached in veils of white -

I walked, my belly groaning with the past,

and walked and walked,

 keeping upright in the pity, bowels and all.

 

Go into the garden, she says,

and I try not to hurry, with my thick fat tongue,

I really try,

hearing laughter,

to will a good not gone.