I
the mule is loose in the garden again
while my uncle's breath fogs window panes
his right hand creeps across the land
throttling poems in their earthen beds
II
uncle rubs his brow trying to recall
when fingers decided to count themselves
why tired tulips their stems turned around
release their petals sighing to the ground
III
his rumored left hand dreams of lost at sea
displacing desire the tide falls asleep
and the quarter deck of that mossy ship
where neighbors' hearts wander darkened charts
sails vacant in the breeze
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