98 Down an aisle of uncertain light

98                       

Down an aisle of uncertain

light

I stare.  An unkept garden is there,

posthumous as a wreath.  Who might

be walking in that faded air?

 

No one at all.  The sundial sleeps

in the tall grass.  Each shadow

keeps

its slow time.  In the rank bowers

there is a ghostly odor of flowers.