Open spaces swell the abandoned park
to beginnings to alter Darwin’s theory,
the ground inclines to be a writer
without any footfall subjects.
A muse evolves from foliage
behind wrought gates worn quiet,
more than just the species it supports.
Night to develop till morning hours will draw
lawns to untenable beard heights,
folios in the trees collect notes of the wild,
next brush could be a gardener’s cull.
Overgrown ideas bowl along the green,
clamber literate from Russian ivy.
Trail Tsar knots as tight as former fine minds
that composed before decomposure gained,
filling the walls with coiled free verse.
Paper buds with experience and meaning,
and great philosophers grown to white roses,
in contemplation of misunderstandings,
drop petal lines into an untitled, unreadable