My Gardeness

Alfre de Grazia


You make of it a dance

in steps, with limits known;

cruel whip s put to nature so that it's rage abates.

But turn your back and life

begins, tops, halting moves,

clings ebbs, inequable;

the rage of a garden gnashes

through the senses, in

pink blue brown yellow

white purple pink blue

endlessly you see. What

rages in a garden! rocks big

small sharp round sharp

small big blossoms and leave,

cook apothecary dime-store smells.

erutping passion for variety,

yet you make of it a true

predictive science, a beast in

a strai-jacket.