Garden

Because I could not lie still in your bed, I lay here to listen, to the garden that sings. To the dew, the [the] heavy splash of red flowers filled with evening, as shadows settle began like a plume, the flickering hours,
that escape, like flowers. “With your touch, I am? Go, flee.”

I shall remember, like the flowers, of the moon, in silence. —H.D.

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