Young men come here
to practice their golf
swings, climb the hill
as dark colors push
down the sun until
it can't be followed
and there is nowhere
left for any of them to go,

until the trees in the
AIDS memorial garden
wave their limbs and spread
prison bar slats of light
on flowers closing their
bright faces, bending
and folding their green
necks in bedtime prayers.

The artistic irony of
nature never escapes
the wind. Rochester
kicks up its smooth
skinned victims against
park benches, petals
collecting in soft piles
turning brown and weak.

06/28/2004

Posted on 06/28/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason