Garden i.

The velvet setting light,
mid peach, hums, as a rogue
Hayabusa
not what it was
but still beastin',  
pallette of Summer
and clear purses purr,
whirred by time
and a soft, fragmented
breeze. You pick blueberry
babes barefoot,
tones of veins
after bursting,
bitter the treats.
I turn those
tiny North American bells in my hand,  
treasures grown
behind North African lovers, scatter Sativa,
make mazes,
webs that haze
out weaker annuals,
Some wait -
for ruse, a wonderment
to creep upon them
and suckle roughly;
I just sit
on flat earth
under an ageing sky
swamped by feverish seas
of winding green
and swollen hats.