The Garden

The garden is without flaw – sylvan, remote, holy.
A place to wait. The wall around it begins slowly
to feel narrower each night than it did before. You start
to wish for some chink to appear, though this would hurt.
You don’t voice that, not aloud. Instead you say, the point
of this life is how to live it. But silently you know: the point
of this life, at its center, is how to leave it. Day after day,
the giraffe couple twine their necks together. The frog pair
leap one over the other over the other over the other,
a Moëbius strip of arcs. The maker comes each evening
to collect his strokes. Why, you wonder, do you begin
to long for something to go awry? The sky above looks clear:
beyond it, you know, there is no limit to what the perfect can bear.

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