It’s consensual—don’t worry—the garden
getting fucked by rain. We had all asked for it,
begged for it, prayed. And, after, again:
may “grow” not be lost as a verb. The storm
was an unethical doctor, sharing with us
the sky’s own ephemeral x-ray. We needed
to see it. We needed to project our own bones
onto its skeletal shapes. We mistook the beech,
we mistook the sycamore, we mistook most
of what we took in. “Took in,” as if we ourselves
were altering the outsized garment of the world.
Leave a Reply