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On a wide lawn, green-lit

By the sun and belonging

To the only atheist in the street,

Paradise basks freely,

Weed-like and uninterrogated.

No justification is needed

For the soldier grass, which shivers aimlessly

And reveres the sun. Above

This lawn-patch, the green flight

Of rosellas animates a quick

Wash of sky, and early

Flames of restless heat

Stoke the affect of desire.

Summer evenings in the pleasure garden

Are open to all-comers, and nothing’s demanded,

And nothing’s done.

 

Some afternoons, the greenish thickets

Turn blue in the shade; the climbers

Strangling themselves on the vine

Look blue. Rosellas flit blankly in trees

And sprint low across the azure

Lawn. Blue shadows ripple

Through the undergrowth, and the effect

Is of a tidy and self-contained ocean.

There’s no water-view from this street,

But the weedy lawn offers a worm

In lieu of a whale, replacing

The foamy doldrums of a colourless sea

With more subjective griefs. A tanker

Runs aground when the sun goes, and grass-currents shift

Its rusting bow past the fence line, where imagination

Justifies a better god.

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