Sunken Garden


Will they ever push the door open?
When shall the hand rest on the balustrade?

What was it that you wanted them to learn?
One smile after another they allow to march
without restoring you

to us. Why did you wish them that lesson?
On the icy marble of their balustrade?
Rest, without a tightening of the grip?

Tell them to stop at Virata, then turn
left at Cadapan, out towards Empeño . . .

They sold the shorts cheap, however,
for running these kites, the vulgar mornings.
Keep ever in step with teacher;

so crumpled

according to the old-colour magazines.
And how will you know: did they get it?
Rest, besides the white tightening of the grip.*


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