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(After a party at Marge Piercy's Cape Cod home)

In the poet’s garden one summer evening
in June rows of leafy enjambments stop
at the edge of a lush planting of blossoming

trochees and alongside the muted petals
of shade-loving tercets while a simile like a snake
slithers through a bed of perennial metaphors

that spread outward and over the fern
hill to kiss tidy plots where amphibrachs
are draping a trellis and underfoot

anapests are sprouting and iambs abound.
In the poet’s garden rhymes climb pink
spondees at the foot of a synechdoche

of rhythm and hyperbole. Metonomies
now grow where once only concrete was.