Thursday, August 28, 2014

Kneel Here

Beyond the wilted flowers that no one watered,
my garden is in shambles,
the dogwood broken,
the expensive bowl hasta churned into
volcanic earth.
A front end loader perches where the fox gloves bloomed
this early spring,
just dirt now, gray in the gray morning.
They left the labyrinth I had built by hand
found rock by found rock,
but it looks stark now,
dusty,
untrod.
You cannot see the prison bars unless
you kneel here with me
in mourning,
how they frame off everything creative I try,
and make it
so much earth and tire tracks.

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