Mar 30, 2021
garden gate left ajar
if i had love enough—if i really did choke on the idea of a love so vast—if i myself was that love—if i lost myself in the drowning of a thing because i am the garden hose and the watering can and the glass shower door then perhaps i will bury my hair / from the haircut i gave myself in the dark in the plot meant for a mother’s hydrangeas the thought will occur that i am—i can be—i must be—i am the enforcer of my own stillness the teacher of my own complicated tongue my own final epiphany / curled in on itself how language is in itself a litany— burning me in bottomless anticipation— buried will i grow—
