Late-May, and it’s safe at last here in Connecticut to plant impatiens, my wife unloading flats of them, red and white by the mailbox,
The gardener is mad, bowler askew, black brim casting shadows like knotty fingers plunging Earth. Worms divide, squirm into points: stars, underground light. Seeds
The grave is dug but not yet filled. We do not bury during Holy week so days pile up like unsaid Masses and we