Nov 142013
 
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.

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