Summer hunched in the muddy rucks Of Teaneck. Wilson strayed, sluggishly, Into the weedy garden beside his home. Wilson was not a part Of the windy morning beckoning, Nor of the warty gourds he watered-- Tiger-orange and dirty brown. There was no mystery In the knotweed where Wilson kneeled To which he alone possessed The clearest key. Red-purple vines crouched close. Scalloped curtains blew. And the cabin at his back, sluggishly, Blazed ethereally whiter.