Alan Reynolds

THE SECRET GARDEN'S SECRET

The secret garden's secret is it's dying.
More actively: we mortals take its life.
Not all of us. Some gardeners work hard trying
to block, with shovel, hoe, and pruning knife,
the money floods we other folk let loose
to flow like water over garden walls.
We show great interest in attempts to sluice
the topsoil's gold we cart in carryalls
to fertilize our fantasy we're gods
and need no roots, or none that we can't make.
We modern humans, jumped-up amphipods,
pretend we don't need wildlife, and we stake
all species' fate in underfunded schools
that clap for gardeners but can't buy them tools.

HARPS AND VIOLENT INNS

The hearts and violins they're passing out
don't hold a candle to the ones we burned.
The fountain's cracked, and rust leaks from the spout
beside the pool where once our bodies turned
as one creating underwater sun.
The courtyard where we danced is sharply paved
with broken glasses. We broke everyone.
The vineyard where in spring we misbehaved
has been cut down. I find the blackbird's nest.
The broken glass reflects the empty shells.
I try to smile, pretending it is best
that you're not here to hear the muffled bells
that toll the march of autumn through the plain
as the shells give up their colours to the rain.

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