The Rose Garden

about the
closed rose garden
the dogs in people’s
bodies—owners of these
premises, appear, stand guard;
he thought this grey-green acreage
existed only in his dreams and,
now on this ascension Sunday
he will not wake to changing
stars—to air disasters—
this night his walk will
be among the roses,
closely, carefully—
about the thorns,
about the red
rose garden,
eyes open,

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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