The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Rich Ives
My Neighbor’s Car Garden
I have a neighbor whose flexible pearls of wisdom
dumb me down. The patient mirrors of his seeded dreams
have a reason when I’m listening, but every flower breaks new ground,
and the evening lies down. That’s one thing. Another has been gone since
before I started, the more patient neighbor. A rumor, she was killed by a wall
that couldn’t continue being a wall. It fell with patient deliberate ease,
a predetermined accident. There’s something beautiful about it
that strikes me like the repetitively mottled lunatic ecstasy of
lungwort in early spring. Like unseasonal harvests of attractive hornets.
Like feeding eggshells to the chickens. There are sailors born
on the independent ocean who have never known this land. They seem
to be waiting for someone among us where night is still snow
and falls differently every evening, like gently approaching shadow-brides.
We keep them in the snow room, call it Dementia and set it apart.
We put such experience in pills and keep the pills close. We do not take the pills
anywhere because Dementia is angry. Her mother does lots of bad things
and is buried beside the parking lot. There is no building for the parking lot,but you can smell the guilty cabbage, the damp necessary invitations of rust.
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