Epithalamium

　　by Matthew Rohrer

　　In the middle garden is the secret wedding，

　　that hides always under the other one

　　and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree

　　one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another.

　　Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die.

　　There is no one else for miles，

　　and even those people far away are deaf and blind.

　　There is no one to bless this.

　　There are the dark trees， and just beyond the trees.