I set a clockwork garden from the sins we saved away, from symptoms of the prayer we buried deeply in a quiet place with confidence the stony soil would hold. Today it fruits with vitrified reflections as its vines meander jade throughout the pickets painted white so long ago, betraying the perfection in its stannic blossoms of our choices fertilized and flourishing in bitter little rows.
And I could have counted, one by one,
The seeds and nails we scattered.
I could have killed the earth
With just a word,
But who’s to know?
Another clockwork caretaker
To sow a seed today
And let the aurum and thensteel take root
For faulted food to grow.