'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
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for Kerry

Out back in the garden, knee-deep in kale, 

her eyes seed baroque — old coffee stones

swirled around beds of composted worlds:

new grannies, wild herbs, and potato plants;

chicken bones (dog-gnawed); bees at pink roses;

crows carry on, a blue tongue flits at flies;

figs sway behind the dervishing hills hoist;

quince and blueberries, a dead brown dugite;

quacks, croaking, and throaty song birds; Hermes

toys a bandy in the shade of a blue

jacaranda; then the sun fades away

and rain plops down like paunchy Buddha bellies.

O, it’s a peaceable enough kingdom.

Through a spring miasma, her eyes kindle

fresh hope, a celestial prescience —

star fields in the black cathedral plasma:

no garden would exist without her mind

churning the raw green grist of the sublime.

  • John Kendall Hawkins

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