The Green Garden Hose
by Chris Hutchinson
Sleeps somewhere in blackberry or salal,
Cracked, leathery, emptied of secrets.
But its flights of burbling brightness once taught us to burst
From our skins––our spirits
Tracing butterfly-roads, and wavering inside
The subtropical jet stream!
As for you,
Now your pulse flutters
Faintly in the wilds
Of your extremities
As a silvery dust
These new suburban lanes,
Of the watery light you loved, the light you
Conjured to suspend us and prevent us
From waking and
Descending too soon
Into this other, more private world
Of suffering and contemplation.