SILENCE: garden in a wood

Because I have braved twice as many
awkward years,
my voice seeks you and misses.

If it is asked, a response will be
inflammatory—of course,
has at least that been learned?

A breath can sharpen one’s
perfect hate
or your love as mania;

that canine delusion
ripens
in a grand gnarl of root.

Settled between our phantoms;
The Saint of Fleeting
gives his love with the burning end.

We notice little of change,
as nothing is right,
We remain calm;

Where you would have normally
planted plots,
Sweet Williams overwhelm.