BERNARD CAPINPIN

Garden

I bed my name beside yours, it is a proper name. The garden’s borders are marked by the abscission of leaves. Beneath the surface is another absence, the figment in the water another form of consciousness. I always mistake a rivet for a rivulet, phantoms for fathoms, aphasia for a phase. Creeks are broken because they refract. The arrangement of rocks form a sentence without sense, séance without a scene. Parts from a passing apparition, a gathering of debris, furnishes the air. To pray again but to the water where only echoes lamp the way there.