miles and miles of green
and the monks meditate
watching the green,
the single drip from a leaky faucet
or a continuous stream of music,
sans-pause.
can we believe?
can we relate to these statues and
long dead saints that
children begged candy from
and who now rest,
unknown in their stone sets
like the cut grass on the
lawn,
each inch cut growing back
with less and less of
itself,
and how,
now,
the only way I can remember
you is how you sat on the bench
crumpling into yourself
into yourself?
Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 