No Garden Here -------------------------------------------
No garden here. He clambers in the flowing umbrella
Blood rowing through an unnamed passage-way
Through first signs of dawn; the shifting images of a fortune teller,
The man with his hands in his pockets is going astray
And thinks he sees a cross in the scorched reflection
The paint slashes of peach, and the skies mute erection
Some make-believe woman at the zebra crossing
She made him aware his morning would come to nothing,
But to soar above the hive of threatening shapes
And into the potato field where the sun is falling,
To be back in the greenhouse with some old cassette tapes
Is to escape the laceration of the cities maw;
That vast obstruction of nailed windows,
The tango of street-lights on his way to work.
It's morning and I'm sitting in a quiet house with a steaming cup of coffee. Reading your poem was lovely and gave me goosebumps. I imagine a character very much alive with intensity and imagination, walking to work, seeing shapes in the shadows and divining what they mean. I do not see him as a fantastical character though, just someone who is very much present in the physical world and comfortable with silence and the absence of people's pressures and impressions. He seems to love to work with his hands, and although he has a vibrant internal life, in reality he prefers security, the honesty of straightforward work, the natural, soft silhouettes of nature as opposed to the hard lines of the city.
I love how you moved the character along the streets and into his small universe, where he will be cocooned with the scent of earth, the brush of leaves, the sound of music playing from the tape deck.
Your descriptions are poignant and succinct, and swirl to a nice rhythm. I particularly loved the sun falling over the potato fields and 'escape the laceration of the city's maw' was brilliant.
The reading experience may have been enhanced with a bit of spacing, maybe double spacing the lines, since there are really no breaks in the train of thought.