These tufted fronds arise from sand
On golden paths in desert lands
Shadowed by the lunar mountains.
Black oily liquid in the fountains,
Swirling pink-and-orange sunset;
Dark spirals intimate night’s onset.
In dusky gardens with red blossoms
Bursting buds are blushing bosoms,
The petals are foreskins, fingertips;
Wide-open eyes have long-lashed lips.
You always wondered what became
Of excised surgical remains.
Those are palm trees, I believe:
Life-lines missing from each leaf.
Limbs spasm in trellised, frozen violence,
A tantric arbor writhes in silence.
All sounds absorbed: no bird or flute
Is heard in branches convolute
That dangle with misshapen fruit
Orbited by abstract cherubs
And suspectly rubescent scarabs.
My former rug was beige and plain;
This carpet can hide any stain.
©2000 F.J. Bergmann
"Persian Garden" appeared in The Raintown Review Vol. 5, Issue 2, June 2006
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