There’s an ocean growing in my garden;
it’s sprung from the soil,
and stolen the seeds I planted.
“Quick!” It screams;
“Run and dive!
Swim before they get you,
the men stood on the corner.
Swim before they reach you
with their wallets bulging from denim
and boxes rattling in their hands.”
But I’m curious, and I wonder
whether its moss is from
the stone I left rolling in its centre
or the age of its tides.

There’s an ocean in my garden,
and I’m not sure if its intentions
are the best for us.
Or for its other shores
scattered across other ports
and to other trades
in other courts, or houses
much like mine, complaining
that the rain’s coming a little too thick
or the mist is blocking their view
of the largest wave they’ve seen in weeks
by the cedar growing
on their back porch.