← v9n2, Fall 2010
Poetry · Volume 9, Number 2

El Laberinto

,

.

Bet in the wet it's scary,

circles of hedge above our heads.

Dry season, April, we can see

five or six rows through

so no worries. At the center

a high gazebo, with Escher

mazes morphing. We scan

the whole garden

the dead ends.

A nesting

clay-colored robin

regards us, her beak

trailing untrimmed

a waist-length

beard of moss.

When her mouth's

not full,

she sings the rain.