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


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

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.


To purchase this book click on the cover or if you use PayPal add it to your orange shopping-cart

You are viewing the text version of this site.

To view the full version please install the Adobe Flash Player and ensure your web browser has JavaScript enabled.

Need help? check the requirements page.

Get Flash Player