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Summer 1979
Last of the seventies,
and the door to the door
to my grandmother’s garden
is barred by a barcode
of quivered acrylic –
red, white and blue streamers
a portal to her plastic
phantasmagoria:
bleached gnomes, hollow herons;
her pinwheel-flagged towers,
Rapunzelled by strawberries;
narrow yellow ropes, strung
porch to fence like sagging,
exhausted laser beams.
And amidst all this bright earth,
the plump shoot of a boy.
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