In certain lights, our garden looks almost—
not habitable, exactly, but like a garden,
all sudden jonquils, an unexpected host
of primrose like grounded moths. Think Eden
in the aftermath: boxwoods outgrowing
their bequeathed rounded, cornered, or conical
shapes. Dropped limbs. The grass needing mowing.
Windfalls liquefied, a smell
of last November. Hindsight. Fruit flies
ascending like visible, audible breath.
Imagine, against the wall, a rusted cooker
showered with damp white blooms. An onlooker
at an open window, saying, ah, here’s death
undone, again . And glad of the exercise.
Sally Thomas
Dear Reader,
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