the garden had a gate for exits

i. the pungent spread of nonsensical landscapes

the red flag that demarcates
the mulched illusion of a perfect lawn
puzzles the lone observer
with its signal of bland perfection.

the small set of saplings annoy with freshness:
what goat-footed god would call this a grotto of now?

there is a small fortress of shrubbery
that protects mechanical brassy water
from the inevitable rotation of crops.

there is a quiet nibble that swells your lips.

there is the inevitable theatrics
of inhaling the big green tongue
that could have lapped your shores
while the scotch broom in its gaudy spray
of cream yellow and regal maroon
blushed over the paint chipped banister.

in retrospect,
removing the ferns was a big mistake.

ii. meanwhile, back at the franchise of mystery

wire frame glasses inverted on a desk,
a tin of tea, two pencils and all the rest-
it all wavers slightly in the sweetness of a breath,
a piano climbs somewhere unfathomably deep:

the movie of a blue-veined hand reaches your cup and drinks.

this is one way of letting go.

iii. a final climb in the ecstasy of nothing

to effectively pull the shaved and mottled skin over one's head
it is best to either use a bulky sweater knitted by a mothball aunt
or to replace it altogether with a natty cover more in the Phoenician style:

a wisp of purple feathers, perhaps, or maybe hard brown scales,
perpetually reeking of the perfect oyster salted sea.

this is the pearly paralysis of endless choice.