This Garden
could be virtual
evidence of a Second-Life —
a web designed for another
self who wants to walk
a shadow along its twisted paths,
then meet her once true-self
returning to her own back door
hostas in clay-pots scrolled blue sea-blue lavender slug devoured flowers Holy the host
. . . ess is behind closed doors Hosta Host this ghost hostile sometime
she will try hospitality. . .
Blackbird
could thrill her
to an everywhere-garden, its
dapple across a childhood-green
no need of patterned order then —
you didn’t notice bindweed how it clung death over and around
that Dance du Feu, the avatar says
. . . and are the roses sick how worms turn squirming along earth tunnels worm-holed we
seek another universe where we can sing in the trellis with the wrens . . .
Columbine
how split her purple thoughts —
aquilegias a crack of seeds
from bonnets where she walks in lavender-fields
and breaking words arrive in single letters
on a blank page
. . . you try and spell them in this blue reflecting sky there even the sentence is a
mirage
mirrored by that ramshackle wire-grass yard-grass goose-grass disturbance in the field . . .
Summerhouse
wild by this tree
there’s a house of stories
patterned in dappled shade
under the oak — the Jet splits ears
and tells another tale
. . . Aah a woman’s screaming ecstasy skateboards the street agony not knowing from where she flew
who would hear her cries or who would note them in a moving Blog . . .
Gunnera
Monster you’re a jungle animal
giant with green-splayed hands
how you crush our fan-tail fish
these images drown as soon as thought
yet how I long to be
a sprite cradled in the lap
of your palm
. . . stepping back by verbena seeds sewn as words in ground the garden room red
geraniums neatly lined in pots on sill one or two leaves heart-shape the mind she will
will it on to flower . . .