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.
Flower-beds
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.