gardening

in forfeiture to the pretty undergrowth

bury your head – breathe in

trace elements, fertility, decay –

to those faces made of printer toner resin

someone drew when they ran out of canvas

blow back to the antique mirrors underneath

the mirrors that gift the moonlight to the garden

roll up your jean legs to the end

of the calves – end or beginning –

denim static pulls at the weed-like hair –

now make tears

in the sides of the garbage bag for handles –

hope that they hold out long enough –

mirrors, moonlight, gardens

resin – what is happening here?

My God My God, My God, My God, My God

are you taking out the green waste or going crazy?

the eggshells are all so pale

the earthworms so endless

the chocolate all sugar bloomed

three whole rockmelons indented

by time, too misshapen even to roll –

whatever was unreachable once

is now inexistent, turned over and so

cradled by elegy, dirge – weeds

parted like balding hair by the pulled

and ripping denim framing your ice cold skin

weeds seem to capture what is happening here –

kinesis in stasis – the bag goes no further

the smell of the compost too much

your legs can’t cross

your eyes can’t cross

the crows are circling

the sums don’t square

the hutches don’t lock

live chemical catalysts

stain the polymer sunset green

green like the tussocks you squint through, scared

and the clouds are distended bruises

vessels filled with the juice of purple carrots –

everything isn’t ruined

but irreparably askew

all faces are that way from your bower and angle

from the undergrowth, all photographs are faces

from the undergrowth, all things in the world are faces

tomorrow when you wake, body thick with soil

a form of obscurity will dawn

the ultimate form, and will not stop rising, not even

for the mirrored moon – until it too has become obscure.

http://youtu.be/G7LKyYTdNbc