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.