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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