The Garden

Wild Grapes


you come to the garden
for salvation
to die for a little while
in the ripened grapes
the autumn raspberries

huge sunflowers cast their gazes
over the asphalt borders
their faces more familiar
than friends
in the shifting haze

traveling the mosaic
you gather the gold
swollen with sun

spiders write your name
and the thrum and hum

of wood chips and pine needles
whisper of forests and snow
but this eternity
is all you’ll ever need to know
as the art explodes



some days I feel
as beautiful and monstrous
as the cicadas

singing songs
the source of which
we do not know

in treetops
stretching the high wires
of August desire

to a taut unmistakable pitch
spinning the hollow of the day
to tapestry

a small orchestra
pilgriming from above
the green-gold
of the chestnut
and catalpa trees


our weary exoskeletons
of another day

spelling the scenery of ducks and geese
chaos of children in the wading pool
as you pass by on your walking way

stitching the gold
silhouettes of humid pines
to the falling skies
reflected in the darkness
of our summer eyes


Photo Courtesy of Pixabay 

Vena Cava

in my vena cava
the surgeon found nanoscopic
relics of Portland

a tiny Victorian house
surrounded by roses

two rotting piers
encrusted in barnacles

and a rusted English Raleigh
bicycle circa 1940

in my atman
the nun found closets
filled with black vintage dresses

a wandering band of
Tuvan throat singers

an athenaeum of
illegible journals

and a wildflower meadow
humming with bumblebees

in my corpus
the oneironaut found the
ocean shore in summer

tinkled by
the bobbing music of masts

embroidered by seaweed
printed by paws

awash with the blue air
of distant tides

soon everything will change —
soft things collapse and die

soon only everything hard will remain
and skeletons emerge from frost

Willard Tidal Pool 4.28.19