The TV turns our room blue. We are a blue room with two windows.
It's almost morning outside—listen to the birds, stirring in the garden.

When poets walk on a night filled with moon, they howl
into bottles, they turn their footsteps into words' garden.

You capture the wasp on our wall & sing it
a lullaby on your way to the garden.

Nothing takes no for an answer. Nothing sings yet.
I am a blossom unfurling in your garden.

A bandage on my hand, a long dirt road behind us, you press
a four-leaf clover into my palm as if to plant a garden.

What was the riddle? A question of lightening,
hawks and ponds, a freshly dug garden.

The spider crawls up the wall.
You give it to the garden.

Turn me into a poem of your nights and days. Eat.
How many lips have touched and worshipped you in this garden?

Here, we are the first clay animals.
Listen to the gates swing shut as we exit the garden.