The estate stands vacant: the silent stone dogs,
The lawns well grassed, the checkered polyanthus,
The polished porphyry, and –- thus
The fool’s delusion of an opening –-
All the machines are running. It appears
They have simply turned them on and gone.
The coral root oozes syrup sharp as quince,
Jasmine clings to the perspiring palms,
By the rock silverlings glide belly up.
In your dream all the machines are running
(Can they be turned off?) out of the empty house
Across the emerald turf toward you,
Tridents waving like wild stalks of corn,
Antennae scraping the clouds… and then they’re gone.
You turn around and it’s tomorrow,
Nature has shut her doors.
Photo credits: danila85 (top), Julie Shiel: via Dark Roasted Blend, 2008