Artificial Garden
by Lindsey Walker

Far off, they look like petals,
all the prism lights
represented. Here
they bloom, unattended,
on a brown lawn outside
an apartment complex.

The sign says Free.

The pastel baby clothes
ruffle breezy in a cardboard box.
Primary colors wrap Mexican candles
of the fourteen stations and stigmatics
with their punctured palms up.
Chipped dishes fan open,
round and flat, defeated blossoms.
The bold black broken
swivel chair; on its lap rest
books in mute shades,
the tightest buds.

Peel the sepals from
Huxley and Kipling.
Spread the printed petals
where dust rests like pollen.

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