THE GARDEN
(after Huizinger)

to be buried
in the garden
to be lying there
played-out
in the soft soil
of the Sun
among white
roots of Mercy
with Ruin gone
the red nails
the giant galaxies
the winter winds
buried beyond
the black trucks
laboring
over stones
on the slopes
of the hard mountains
near my home
to have that gone 
to be done-in
to be buried
there
in the garden
and to hear
far away
the ordinary chirp
of sparrows
pecking
in the blank
outwardness
of human light
buried beyond
the leer
of strange hands
that tore
and laid me down