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Taylor Graham | ProvisionsI rigged it so
the deer didn’t get in the garden last night
with its electrified fence and flashing
spinning iridescent disks illuminated
by a smear of yellow porch-light
that extends so far beyond
the shut front door. Not so far
as my dreams. Where were the foxes?
In the dim before dawn the bats came home
to roost inside the battens
but I was already outside making sense
of what‚s left of the garden,
planning and providing
a few squash plants holding up their leaves
and the nibbed tomatoes.
So many vines gone.
Whose garden is this anyway?
At the first sun-ray through its appointed
notch, Aug 18, I blew into my hands.
Breath against light.
Praise for the sun's way,
enlightenment and thanks for sweet
submission. How it makes a glistening mesh
of stockwire, it turns a studded
T-post to a sundial.
And yet, what fences
a mind stretches between dark and day-
light, and again, before the next
dark. Not a single hoof-
print of deer or fox-scratch
in a blank night of lost dreaming.
Is a garden nothing but vegetables
or is the brain good soil
for ganglia, roots and everything
ripening?
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