Once I thought even a small garden
could multiply my hopes. I planted

bulbs in a plot. Citrus and persimmon, purple
streaked verbena. But never again the ridged

yellow of ginger flowers, never again 
the ghosts of white-throated lilies declaring

their own thirst. Everywhere in the world,
the soil hardens with rock and tree roots 

or grows shifty as sand. We think our greed will outlast 
these cycles, as long as we rename it desire. What we 

planted in heat will flourish and perish; what we 
let go in rain, fruit and distend. What temperature 

is the heat that simmers at earth's core?  
We are not even fat skimming its surface.


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