The Garden






The Garden



In the wide-awake hours of the morning


                      a fox’s bark


 cracked open the darkness,


                     seemingly quite close but probably


 miles beyond that room


                     and immediately I was in a garden looking down


at myself watching under the moon’s


                      theatrical stage-lighting, in the wide-awake hours,


 watching,  listening to myself listening


                     and in the meantime, forgetting my wakefulness,


 my fretting, the items undone on countless agendas,


                    that the person in the garden was circuited,


 hemmed-in, by fences, trees




















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