The Garden

John Glenday


Just for a quarter of the day, I'd have you

follow me through the smoking willow herb

and my father's garden's half-seized gate, down 

to that place where the knowledge of almost every-


thing comes undone in the powdery ceanothus shade,

where the apple goes withering back to blossom

in your palm, and the serpent, on his hind legs

in the shadows, leaves off whispering.


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