Saturday, August 7, 2010

What's red at night: the bush

What’s red at night: the bush
Not the lion on each corner, light-frozen
on stone bed: very still, very statue

What looms held behind your back
looks like flowers, but careful, will turn--
a guise for something: You know

how sudden all the lilies—their heads cut off
The man in his garden who hated their color, hated
how they grew

back each time he’d pluck their bloom—
a palm of wild, stolen
How he’d sing holy then, grow wax feathers

while out in the garden the streetlight caught
on a ghost, a child— her cheek wet
In her hand, stems

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