I walk through

the garden of

the body. Did

Erasmus know

about Euphrasia?

I am made of glass

or, if possible,

something even

more fragile

than glass.

In the garden

within the

garden, I stand

inside the fever

house: roofless

and built from

eyeglass lenses.

Everything is

blurred until

I float a feather

and Latin words

on water mirrors

for you: Difficilia

Quae Pulchra.


shaped like leaves:

habitat of muses

the garden is our library

open to the sky:

Sidera Addere Caelo:

sleep: you awaken

to find poppies

on your pillowcase.

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