Although, Etc.

Although it is still there
for all I know,
that garden of lost minds,
you are not there
so cannot smudge a tree
into a loose blackbird.
Imagine yourself
sleeping rough
by the holly bush,
skin prickled red
by the wild knives.
 
Why didn’t I steal you
before doors were barred,
make a camp under the boughs?
One tree, concrete fed.
Limp leaves slit
by caterpillar jaws.
The metrics of your voice
stringing loose blackbirds–
why speak to you, knowing
you’re too deep to hear?