out of Garden

what sea
how it is welling your eyes a wet mess

what tide
where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy
where mermaids will turn widows
once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes

stewarding the land instead
is why i never set sail with you

but to lay in gardens, oh…

a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet
and our laps full of stars

what black soil will pervert your knees there
where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth
to run fanatic toward cosmic space
after bathing in the space among us

where walking air pushes every dust

one of sun-dried butterflies
one of beaten rug with broom
one of honey bee’s minus harvest
one from sands of human crust


when traced is an orb monster, Jupiter
around your left breast, so that nipple…

a blood storm just under the skin

and asking where you sowed the marigolds
is only to hear you choke the words time and water
in the same sentence

to hear you say there will be no rain for a week
while an ocean is motoring from your face

see, Jupiter is not a planet i considered living on
until i decided to bury myself there

in a garden of gas
with enough moons
to remind me

that suns only shine to cast doubt

that rains only fall to wash it away

that moons only fill themselves with light
so they may sketch shadows in the dark

that rivers are built of a mermaid torn from water
who watched her mammal so suddenly

sink from air

and out of garden