A dream of the green gate:
the garden grown derelict, hulls
of boats rotting on the porch.
Evidence of half-eaten fruit:
what makes the sudden movement
when you peer into the branches?
Tell me how something other
than sorrow repeats in three
tongues: Tapat. Natalek. Faithful.
How does a memory that’s gone
walking in borrowed coats
return to its owner?
After the downpour, a clearing.
But the rain is never enough now
to dispel the heat or haze.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.