Unstirred

This garden was born weeks ago,
Sprouting benches and orchids
Or sundials,
Mixing thoughts with poisons,
Until lunchtime comes, and we meet,
Or it becomes an arachnid mausoleum,

A quelle direction se trouve demain?
We are drifting there already,
Let us pretend there is no night that fades,
No light that--
Let the light fall longer on other days,
That we may be alone...

Morning may find us,
Apart or together or
Diminished or complete,
Yet by noon again
We will plant another world,
As humble fascinations come to reject,
In taffeta hands,
Passings of the spider king.