The Garden

Whatever my shortcomings, above all
I lack an emotional habeas corpus
in the pawnshop of my desire, where my body
is full of air or is a cloud or is harnessed
to a balloon or hides behind an imperial screen.
The garden is a sanctuary for all the wrong
reasons. Before the big stone buildings
of cities were built to give context to production
and its mess, circumstances were kept
private until the world sent arrows
and monsters to receive and interpret
the scenery of progress. Discipline
and forbearance led to this enclosed pleasure.
Pandemonium and guilt hang their fruits
on my dream's prismatic trees. Embers endure.
Music lends new gladness to the sleeping sky.
When I wake up I'll create smoke of a very
specific color from the fuel of everything
I have, and trade reason for oblivion.