The garden is full of stones.
The smooth patches, let’s call them happiness.
Delight, bliss, rapture even.
Lay here for a while, soak up some sun.
Feel it run through you, tingling,
the hiss of birdsong, the squawk of a leaky tap.
There’s one of those blessed rocks I warned you about.
Shouldn’t have let your head down so damn hard.
That’s what our soft spots are here for, isn’t it?
So we can hurt, bleed, crack open.
So you can see what’s inside,
our juicy, squishy pomegranate bits,