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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