Taj Mahal

Palace of distraction-

here, gardens grow from grief.

This hand forms the outer world

as the one in the bedroom unlearns it

forgets the such of pond and trellis,

released from hold and touch,

to much more, or less-

to bliss,

or maybe sleep.

His last days are quiet,

the life in him is small,

lies so deep it seems to




and flicker.

Many small deaths

have halted the spreading

of soil, ridging, erecting of posts.

Shoes come off – but then,

again, the hesitant hiss

the mere memory

of breath,

so faint

it seems obsolete.

By May, the ivy will have

taken hold,

and from the vista out back

will ghost the lilies,

transient, strong

and sweet.

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