it's not so much gardens as it is 

diners:

black coffee soil,

black denim body stands

engorged with swamp water,

ponderful burden, and 70's 

classic rock.

turnpike gravel crackles

in the crevices of 

every joint and

sand-scratched throat rattles

and hums out hues of 

blue-taffy blues and

chickadees and holly leaves 

grow continuously from my

hands, and 

is this 

natural?

or beautiful?

the long, long dream of 

salvation:

divine proportion, 

divine blade burns with god-wire

wrath, reflects eternal upon

gentle monet eyes and a blush-

buttoned heart.

how i melt 

against the flower horizons that

grace the tail of your chariot, or

do i even

try

to compare?

see how i run,

black-blasted burden making the

beeline to your door. is there paradise 

here? or do i ever to never now even dare?