Underneath the garden's hectic, flamboyant rot is the smug triumphalism of the inorganic.
Wire and stone perform a skeletal totentanz entitled Space & Time.
First and only act, "Birth Pangs."
But there are secrets hidden within words.
Consider this: Dilapidate.
Stones rot. Time and space decompose.
It's all combustion, be it a slow smolder or a conflagration. Good for heart-and-hand warming as winter nears.
This is the farthest shore of sex. This is an ocean-going pod.
At the garden's northernmost corner there is a complex liturgy underway. Listen --
Old Man's Beard.
And the Ding an Sich ?
That's the question, isn't it, and the answer.
We are like the baby that wants what it already has.
Who then, to make matters worse, learns to speak !
Sky Daddy, they sneer, who think they have what they have.
Apostate, they sneer, who also think they have what they have.
What can we do ? Build a hut of rotten sticks, dried grass, yes and I don't know.
Call it cathedral.
Then, naked and terminal, bow.
We fray. Light seeps, then pours through.
Under the bright eye is the white socket, the fragile boat.
Run, child, toward the everliving green !