In the psych ward’s gardens is a tree
With a hole in the middle –
The windows are slightly opaque
And it doesn’t smell like flowers –
At night the exit lights glimmer
And the empty tree stands intact
Will luscious leaves and nesting birds.
An alarm goes off and you find a seat. It’s all perfectly suspended in a bubble of lightning – you sit down. Your stop is at the end of the line, the bait to your fishing rope of a life. The other seats, mostly deserted, seem like they’d rather be speaking. An alarm goes off. Quite odd, all of this, when you’re the only fish you gut (asphyxiation is much too cruel). You come closer. To wherever.
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Can you see what’s in there?
Buttons, pearls, some broken necklace
still glowing faintly, like a year;
a pair of eyes in your face; – What’s next? You,
stepping into the casket,
up and down the stairs, raising like dew
in the winter cherry basket –
But what’s more? You, my dear;
into the water, come,
into the purple sea.