Garden of the Dead

I come here
for the flowers—azalea, agapanthus, crocus,
peony, ranunculus—
but arrive too late, like the hero in the Western
who says to Sam,
“Who shot you? Who did this awful thing?”
just as Sam
bleeds out his last and rolls up his eyes.
But here,
there is no doubt: Ravenous poets attacked
these flowers,
ripped off their petals, chewed them down.
Left a graveyard
of ragged stalks and gravel headstones.
How often
the poet dines upon the very thing he loves.

Fred Longworth

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