I like that lonesome shot of red in the garden--
that single flower there-- it has finally peeked outside
from what was before it: from behind the greens,
oh, I don't know: it's finally there and near to it
are some nudies out there
on the grass, on towels, collecting the sun for their skin
to deepen, to push deeper shades.
I'll tell you, my dad was killed last night
in a rollover, he flew out into
a separate garden where things are kept
just as quiet.
the flowers stand still
and the dirt sits there
and when dead bodies roll in they
will at some point stop rolling.
it is the first time in nearly twenty years
that i have ever felt
anything. he died last night and i wonder what the flowers
learned that day. i don't know these flowers:
if it was something important i wish i could
if it was something significant i would strangle them for it,
like why he loved me
so damn much
that he couldn't even hug me completely,
left too much space between his arms and my back.
he didn't look up from his beard when i made him cry
his head would rest there heavy on his chest, heavier than rocks
and he kept looking elsewhere,
to someplace unknowable, folding inward
to be with his own heart:
a fire burns there.
i'm suspicious of the garden.
there are some kids out there nude,
some nude girls lying parallel to the sunshine.
the government hides little spies
in the dewdrops there, i don't know why.