The divers in Eden go down and return
from the well of the cobbles
with a festival target of flowers,
the roulette of the funeral wheel,
tinfoil, terracotta and fern,
in a birdsong of names: El Clavel,
La Orchidea, Rosalinda. Hands
work in the runnel of water, like fish,
looping wire in the floating corollas, unreeling
their roses like brackets of sponges, frames
for the wreath of the wicker,
dishes and jars where the honey-bee
strikes with a sound of exploding fuses,
and roots in a bandage of lilies.
A perishing
forest of stems, cut gardens
that fly under awnings and carrousels,
blacken in buckets. The clot
of the scathing carnation bores through a tunnel
of pollen, and falters. Midday
is limp on the stones. A reek, as of altars
and napkins, suppuration, the candlewick
flapping on wax, saints
in a strong-box of bones, charred
rocket sticks, gathers like marsh-gas.
Under a groundswell of plaster
the gutters slope toward a cut in the Gorge,
bleeding all color. Water-boys
wilt in the stalls. The shutter slams down
for the shopkeeper’s lock. And night festers.
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