From the Fishouse

In October, three postcards come
from wandering friends:
a cottage on a cliff, with hollyhocks
leaning over the sea;
fat beds of lavender
resuscitated at Giverny;
the brief bluebell wood
at Brooklyn Botanic.

Why do they put these gardens upon me?
I’ve got no lease to these rooms,
I’m too old, it’s too late,
winter is coming . . .

and the White Garden
at Sissinghurst,
the pleasure house
where I sucked on a joint
and watched the moon rise--
that whole glory-book,
its shimmer, is shut.