qarrtsiluni

We’d like to remind you
how built things arrive at collapse,
says the shed. The rust streaks
on my corrugated lid are not
meant
for beauty, though they are beautiful.
We’d like to remind you
how things close in, says the boxwood.
Behind the gate
almost we meet. We could close the man
and woman

and child in the house. In the station
wagon, vines
cry up through the rusted bottom
panel. A sedan
is best as a planter, says what’s
green. Say the sprouts
in the taupe-orange soil of the garden,
we are trim. We spill
over our tops like a fountain. It is
rare to live
among plants and stones, gray weathered
boards that gab.

Concrete has no words, that’s why
we adlib for it—
hearts and our names.

by Monica Raymond

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