Cleaved

This is the last garden, with its green
Stinging. Notice that pond-skater scratch
Its Mobius sigh. Crippled routines

Are cast as its thick heart sticks. We snatch
Up pine shells for our pockets whilst mists
Ancient as all love, crack at the catch

Of warmth. What is it that still exists?
These beams of bracken cannot hold their
Harmony. New rope rubs at wild wrists

In the oak glade with the used trees, bare
And somehow bland. We can only wait
With them, repurpose our wits to stare

East as the sun sets, or, as the straight
Pain pulls down dreams, relinquish light. Stuff
Up the leaf-sounds. I will simply sate

A head no more sublime than a rough
Axe haft. Perhaps it is now enough



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