Let the water have its fill of salt,

and let the barnacles go another year

without paying rent. Let the days lengthen
like an old cardigan that’s kept its cables

if not its shape. Let the jasmine, still
fragrant in the mind, shed its husks

like dried asterisks on the deck,
and let the garden go—

Let the mottled green of moss
slipper the waiting hearts of stones.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Interment.

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