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 Completion (Blue)

The only Innocence
is stasis.
Do not mistake
for neutral stillness,
but rather
a presence
of one strength exhausted,
collapsed against another.
Neither a Holding
nor a Supporting,
limbs pressed together,
Aspen leaf in wax paper:
but not

The garden is made beautiful
primarily from what it is not.
Begonia, Vinca, Sword Fern;
black soil shining soft, giving way
in effulgent expectation,
Spring without end.
Grass lays flat to the Serpent,
the calloused arched foot –
All eyes of the sacred glade
turn past and above
damp fronds, the dripping heart
of lily and rose,
to a blue that drifts,
floats, deepens,
never settling to a single shade.

Blues shape the green garden
as the emerging sketch,
unnoticed and unremarked,
define a home –
the lives, births, deaths
within its walls.
It is always
the in-between –
shifting hues
of azure, navy tinged
with black, pale saltwater
almost white at the shoreline –
that bring the shocking flood.

For a long time, years and years,
there were two bodies
side to side
fingertips touching even in solitary
dives of deepest sleep.
Bodies milkwhite in a blue room.

The garden is repetition.
Sexless fronds unfold,
part feather part web,
again, again, and again.
The self-generating roots,
bees above in ecstasy of hunger,
stamen, nectar,
anxious flight.
Long bodies of insects, lime green,
elegant, thin,
who consume their lovers
when sated.
All repetition
is desire.

Another word for repetition
is pattern.
Fingertip to fingertip
lovers wake at twilight –
pattern preordained
or like the shaded fern self-generated –
in the design of desire,
in the small stitches,
one can see
tiny knots,
a delineation
that shapes
Eventually one arrives
to the borderland
beyond which
the vivid pattern
gives way,
and returns
to the cruelest innocence.

The rooted garden.
The shifting blue above.