The two walk in this parched Elysium
--the happy bottom of the bowl--
and grasping angel's trumpets by the stem
they whirl their dresses in dervish fancy.
The wind here sings of silence and absence.
The leaves mould in the earth,
the patchwork chore gone from the branch,
open to sunlight churning the day.
How not to feel the mounds which border
the rim of the bowl are full of anything
but the husks and sweepings of men
and women who've had their say?
The two step light in the late sun
to forget the trees are bare. The flowers are all
their minds wish to carry beyond the mounds
that border the line of their way.
Nevermind the ropes that caution away from the field.
Abandon the stone benches astride the path.
Look out, up beyond the soft border mounds.
Step off, step out, exhale the space away.