CATHERINE GRAHAM

The Float Garden

In the evening’s wake, birdsong stops—
breeze hollows as green succumbs
to more green. Always, for a thin second,
lives the in-between and sometimes it stretches—
a membrane envelops us—and we forget
our names as the moon’s line
anchors us, pulling our tidal waters
though we stay standing still, any ache
evaporates and all the gardens
we have walked through float at eye-level,
colouring the endless with humming bees.