garden spider stockstill in rhododendrons
long since gone past; bee haunts the white camellia
down the avenue; rough cat’s ear inches up
yellow, scrawny afterthought taking root at
that intersection under a sycamore;
empty park where desire dissipates in light—
thursday’s suburst turns the sky invisible:
in this brilliance death flowers inside my chest—
Jack Hayes
© 2016
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