In the Real Garden

Art by Christian Schloe

To the near-empty sound of the young morning,

Dyed only with the sensuous sway of

Two trees that dance together

Though separately,

Rinsing their leaves in

The blushing haze of the ever

Unfathomable new day’s emergence

From the embers of yesterday’s vastness,

To this,

To it,

To you,

Near-empty sound:

hold steady.

i feel you.

within your timid thrum i enter,

sensing everything.

and you.

and your growth as the dew dallies.

and me.

and my body laid down beside yours.

and us.

and the roaring din

of our sternums as we breathe.

Pastoral

Unknown photographer

Remember when I asked you to keep vigil?

Oh, the promises you made!

And oh, how you slept!

And… Oh, how you brought me

offerings in your quest for redemption!

But I have limned myself with

the thinness of every moment—

this one, and the next.

And I have stolen away into a mythology

that only I can understand.

Thoughts. Legends. Fantasies.

They endure.

As do the sepulchers of the dead.

Late at night, stillness coils through

my flesh, rousing every angle

of my being into attention.

Words are no longer necessary.

My mouth is round with vision.

The strawberries ripen

in the stirring of the wind.

I walk slowly.