i. it started near the garden of almost blooming
the pale blue shadow of a predictable leaf of graph
dripped behind the green sun of a fuschia terrace
on an afternoon filled with the geometric curve of insteps:
easy wide to eyeball this, from the sigh gasp calves
to the scarlet thrust of glamour toes in beige sandals.
this was the craving summer of grimy gnat filled screens
and curved lines that infuriated the crispness of Euclid.
and what was simply advertised as a failure of the will
became a rainbow of coincidence hidden in erupting leaves.
ii. after mid-summer the seasons start to change
the shadows of mimosa buds, having lost their scent,
form black comedic masks on the rain rusted siding.
we could smell the orange winds of autumn
hiding beneath the humid hems of summer
and the silver underside of weigelia leaves
that warned of scripted trysts unplanned.
a silver key balanced on the black mold,
unblenched, of the rocking chair armrest-
the chair painted in dramatic flowers
by the arm of a child expressing thanks:
this key could not open the painted doors
that lavishly barked the entrance to the garden-
it was a path we could not take.
iii. there are many ways to rectify the forgotten
in a dehydrated attempt to wetly articulate
the saved yellow globules of nostalgic desire,
the cancelled postage devoid of cellulose hinges:
deference is due to the wrappers of seed,
but only when the set of lavender ribbons
is proportional and, oddly, ironically demure.
there was the pitiless sun, not precisely prodigal,
that arced across peninsulas of the proverbial burning sand.
wait, she said, the waves are passing the bow
and the island is too distant.
iv. do not be disappointed by the refactoring of your bedclothes
in a windy foyer filled with antique chimes
and dead replications of the already dead,
do not sniff expectantly for a blowing wind
in this brown and barren alley of moldy must:
we cannot wipe away the chanting of the lost-
we can only hope to find someone who touches us
the way we touch ourselves.