CLOSED FORM

A Garden is the prison
that holds the fresh sunlight.

A Garden is the boisterous parliament
that debates Delight.

A Voice
softer than the unstrung vibrations
that Th'Springs can make

imitating Birth th'fountain
bubbling in mysterious throats

words one wants to listen to
spontaneously melt to laughter
upon the Winter's solemn boughs
of Sense

leaping, mustering O mortal laments
quickening upon settling beds
trembling upon th'tedium's intents

gaping all over the lambent
numberless & never/always many bleds ^[sic]

watering the Invisible Anonymous
eternal returns of all human loss

dressed in its slumbering alms

wings which uplifting like a flame
Th'Cold in golden hearts commingling

with Th'Green
bring on The Living strings
building musics of abundance

blundering through Th'Hush of Chance

Ah, Life! in its confetti Courage: covers
The World with its testimony

of Heroic petunias & Glorious clovers
abandoned amongst th'blooms of Irony

lost, O never so much in a waste
as amongst th'successes of human haste--

If in a Garden the gardener dies
The Garden is his tomb:

Where deadly Nature builds over him
Infinite Bloom.