The garden is a ward of the state now

The garden is a ward of the state now.

The bright yellow crowns have all rusted,

heavy with the weight of being watched.

This one is a bent neck, a broken crane

staring at the gravel.

A crow landed on the dry, fibrous stalk.

The flower didn't even flinch.

It just held the bird’s weight like an old debt

it was too tired to argue about.

The center is a dark, crowded rot.

It's shedding its seeds like loose teeth

falling into the mulch.

It looks more honest this way—

starved and black and finished.