Three Quatrains In A Garden

Where foot petals unfolded

Under canopies of foliage was a place

Neither good nor bad --

Was simply beyond. Rumi told

 

Me this: these words tattooed

On my lover’s elbow’s inner fold.

Meet me there. I met her

In a place where concrete was all we had.

 

There was no garden. Not even

One petal’s delicacy to subdue

The hard walls of the homes

We loved in -- our mouths our only flowers.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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