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 read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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