In the Garden

There are no dragon heads here.

Abandon abandoned her children here,

where the moon howls

and they returned to eat her, there was

nothing else to eat.

Hope dangles on her broken strings here.

Twelve-bar blues and lungs collapse here.

The singing is silenced here.

Malice dances in the heat shimmer,

trees snap,

the tide pulls back to safer depths,

not here.

Here is the banquet, here

the patina of listlessness, here

the bones and the gristle and here

the soggy heart.

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