Garden

Oh lips and lops and women
in the middle of their shadows
walking wide by wide.

They are stopping
by the yellow, loosened roses,
lean on the roundness of air.

Oh they seem to blow,
rise and widen,
ride the colors like a breath.

Oh they talk with their little wrists
of wisps and wasps,
the hot, whittled light.

The end of the day is scented, red
and stated loudly on the gravel
in their long, wide shadow shapes.

The small brights imply a softness.
All of it curves and has a side,
a blue light on a bubble.

But they infer
with their sliding eyes
a fall, with breakage.

Patricia Nelson is a former attorney who has worked with the “Activist” group of poets in the San Francisco Bay Area. This is a Neo-Modernist group. Her most recent book, Out of the Underworld, is just out from Poetic Matrix Press.

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