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Sole proprietor and only inmate.
Even so, there are gardens I haven't
Visited, rivers I bathed in too
Early for dreams. I wander among
Names, reveries long pressed into my album,
Too precise to be anything but words,
Yet behold a watermill I've never seen.
Seldom is a garden inarticulate.
Even the Earth, like a good patient,
Vividly seductive on the couch, dreams
Exactly as the therapist suggests.
Nor do I hope to learn who tends my peonies.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems permission to use
provided by the author. |