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Friday, December 4, 2009

The hanging gardens

Moss in the brain, that's what they say I've got, though in larger words. When my ears shut to the words, they flutter translucent photographs on a white screen to prove it. There's no work so I walk, and I look, and sometimes I knit. Green. I'm going to knit a garden, a nest of greenery, and fall asleep in it. When my fingers grow numb I stop and picture Jerome in the sand, Jerome in a tent, Jerome in a latrine, in Iraq. Nebucchadnezzar built the gardens of Babylon not far from where Jerome sleeps now, also wearing green, drab green. The king built gardens for his sick wife to remind her of Persia. But my gardens are growing inside me. Her gardens were destroyed by earthquakes. So, they tell me, shall mine be.

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