this Judas-place, this Garden.

built and then forgotten,

our own forsaken Eden.

now the vines snake 

through shattered utility sheds,

up rotting trestle, and 

across overgrown paths,

bearing their sanguine fruit.

–

I press the blade of a knife

against a stem,

and it draws dirty red,

a noose cut free,

watering the ground with 

blood-wine aching lonely,

a battlefield fed with

old death and iron.