Three Quatrains In A Garden

Where foot petals unfolded

Under canopies of foliage was a place

Neither good nor bad --

Was simply beyond. Rumi told


Me this: these words tattooed

On my lover’s elbow’s inner fold.

Meet me there. I met her

In a place where concrete was all we had.


There was no garden. Not even

One petal’s delicacy to subdue

The hard walls of the homes

We loved in -- our mouths our only flowers.


This poem is about: 


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