Even if that garden still exists

with its trimmed hedges

and beds of raging blossoms,

even if that afternoon

with its striped umbrellas

and handsome people sipping cocktails

is nothing more than

our manic memory of it,

we would still hear fountains

from somewhere behind us

in the white heat,

know that birds moved unseen

from tree to tree,

be unable to release

what we could not help but crave

standing no more than a foot apart,

pupils wide and deep

in the darkness of the tree,

our suddenly old lovers

a head turn away,

we unable to express

what was held within

my throat of feathers,

your mouth of flowers.

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