I can see you from the window
this year your purplish pinwheels
fill the bed under the orange tree
in a manner reminiscent of you
and me in an earlier century
I’m forced to say a garden is
a memory of a dream except
in the lower half where we
burn the bodies dig for their gold
I didn’t mean to go there
till I saw you had already
suffered enough among these
flowers your blood still green
with leaves edged white as new.
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