The Final Amnesia
       

The gardeners have decided
to die—give the roses
wings; the mint, dominion—
we grew like the
lost: fingers—roots, eyes—roots,skin—
blooms and unearthly,
consumed, erased.
The sky removes
the world and no words
uttered, a night
lit by leaves,
dressed our faceless
selves, took a trip from
the country: a denial
has hooked
the imagination. This leaving,
returning, loss and the fan
club whispers traps, sweets,
prayer. We have skinned the
trees and rolled
the sod. In travesty and
honeysuckle, grief and
violence, the gardeners are hanging
without a past; the present
opened, planted—we
kneel by terrible walls.

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Copyright © 2011 Dana Curtis All rights reserved
from Camera Stellata
CW Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission