The Truth of
These Materials
A yew-hedged
lovers’ knot, parterre of last words
and
campanula, suggests a future without ghosts.
Even now
the dial
motto straddles light and shadow.
Beyond the
garden, lagoons and heavy leaves
and the
bloodspurt of wings
breaking
cover— what hour?
Skimmed
stones make hatchet cuts on water.
The plumed
crescents jag and settle back
to steady
lapping.
Love likens
each to each and then abandons,
the present’s
picnic quilt of cumulus betrayed to rain.
But stones
are not clouds, nor will these lies save you.
Here in the
Devonian
between the
wet and dry, a fish,
considering
the occurrence of the weather, walks,
thin-boned on
fins, gulping at the sky.
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