Ben Passikoff

WHAT IS BEAUTIFUL IS SEIZED

Age has changed my gardens. Instead of opening roses, Matisse- touched, heavy-headed blue, I now grow lilies, waving white to match the death of skin. I toe dance between snowstrokes with later feet. My love and I, cold parallels, will not meet in this world. Euclid knew. Everywhere cypress, scaping streets where cherry petals Apriled my minutes - now winter-stripped fingers, black, no longer busy with birds. Grandmaster of three-card monte, Death watches me, his eyes akimbo, shifts fates with dishonest fingers slick on the surface of an upended crate. Each day is a doubt. Candles weep their wax, stutter around my urning. My ash is average. Halls fill with ritual friends praising the end of hours.

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