The Gardens
Stone, icy, violet and blue toes
Creeping allows the night to hold you, and me
If we are, near the water.
The dark, cold, cold pool that lies in wait for my bare
Flesh to touch surface and intertwine in blue cheer,
Blackberry blood flowing out from a crack
In the waters edge, the still bricks that cradle
The ripples and contain them.
The gardens are still.
An old man is sat straight in a window,
Dead.
He watched lovers, unlike us,
Meet at this grand fountain
That stands short, fat, greening at the edges,
A dark coin skips over my toe nails and
I think of taking it out of the water,
But the dead fountain glares
At me as I cower from the icy water.
