A pink dozen sunshine trapezoids—
It's good to be breathing
says an array of rosemary shrubs.
A field of illicit rocks, shrapnel, bees, germs unknown.
Hands held. Back seats checked for sleeping.
I have made a Tuesday monument
of a baby's toothbrush lying on the sidewalk alone.
The far lake no one knows about, bitching its ripples.
In this case it
doesn't matter what other people need
in measures of solitude; You
need a few years, a few more years
alone. And it's such a popular
slur to hurl: You will always be alone.
I've been told that—
(Eight years ago.)
(And knowing slowly as I go how to hold a garden here.)