you left
the astonished mouth of a front door
open
and a hammock in this tree: shroud for fallen leaves.
their spice in the catacombs of the yard
the only undead thing--
even the mailbox is a crushed lung
slowly breathing.
and still
I hear
what’s always
left behind in your garden (basil, begonias):
the wild
throb
of the half-eaten
heart.
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