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Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...

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Peter Res

Yard Work

 

Barbara died in her under-worlds

and holy shirt, braless as a Buddha

caught off-guard.  Flash-frozen

in your garden, cursing her flowers

for their planting, the watering gone

undone.  

 

Simple weathering

lilacs on granite countertops

close their eyes. Hide

in swift clippings of buds

like the bulb you stole

from your sister’s bathroom

to illuminate only your corners.

 

“At the funeral for the dog,

you’ll have a real casket” or one fashioned

out of her hair. Bury her fragrance

in soft mulch and impatiens

whatever absence lingers to know:

 

The garden is kept concentric and clean

nothing else matters.

 

 

 

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