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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