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I invade unworthy of the reds, purples, yellows, pinks. You are gone to God knows where now. He is dead. I am sleeping in a clear glass bed in the deep night of the front lawn. Entangled, like vines, your secrets fall out of my ears. My eyes ache. The ground curves, swells, ruptures, as each tulip speaks words as smooth as milk. Your mail just keeps coming. Letters spilling from the box. The season’s last frost rests, then melts, on my skin. I wake with torn eyes, cut and split by every lush bloom emerging from your gardens–hyacinth, lilac, wild phlox, climbing rose, jasmine. The most gorgeous inheritance. Darkness can be found beneath the mossy wooden border, under carefully placed rocks, stone lambs, worn bricks. I pick them up to find the worms, entwined, sensuously busy at their work. At night the moon falls to the ground, explodes, covers the creeping Jenny with its juices.