A GARDENER IMAGINES DEATH DURING THE PANDEMIC, 2020
Is this what I will see:
against a haze of blue a yellow iris
− spear among green blades −
calling me upwards from my final stumble;
no time to name them, each one
and everything I’ve loved, but a yellow
that is all that yellow is
assuming me? Or
eyes behind a visor, summoning me
towards all that human is?
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