The Garden

“I have a hunger” –

Those words,
spoken in a formal manner,
were as stillborn, as heavy as a stone
cradled in an apron.

And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-
you, who were always the comic,
furthest from the dead.

Taken aback,
in slow shock I cup your hand-
not leading you to bed,

but into nightfall’s garden.

We sup on the strange swirl of universe.

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