Sculpture Garden





Returning to the area with the women, returning to the section of women applying themselves. To
return to the application of women, having curled their fingers as if about to tie the air, stone fingers
addressing the air as if to a harp, play.

Fingers distinguishing silence from silence as if to move.

I come here to talk with them, by which I mean my selves. I feed the crows at the entrance and they
tolerate me. The guides beneath the crows in the hierarchy of the garden tolerate me. And I, beneath
the women, beneath myself and multiples, tolerate myself in motion.






























Here we are and are being more here silent than there being loud in motion. In the garden of
missing the one who’s in front of you and who’s in motion—love is exasperation—in you there are 
ever many bodies unable to rest. You who are not the same and are being more there than here—is
not an answer. Being as a group therefore by standing—stone and able—nothing arthritic about this
labor.






























A woman who, out there, had had her body notarized as dead—relates herself to the garden. Silence
overlooks her who is between status. An onlooker of this gated perimeter may grieve herself as a
concept of the exterior, where less is approved in the method of feeling—they said to come here
before departing. And does she? Statues relate themselves to the woman who in surviving herself
becomes her own bureaucracy. A corpse walks through stone constellations.






























Speaking to the curvature of a marble arm bent against a hip is comforting. Speaking to the air one
can sense the difference between a neck and another neck. Unlike when time passed through labor
as before. Paralyzed with difference, coming to a stop, looking at two digits of cartilage, one ear
and one less, she reads a tombstone for the name of the one living who monuments this, therefore, her.































It is cited—the son of a carpenter, having inhaled the pollen of a poisonous tree—it is possible—he
was said to be blind—worked in stone, for its lack of scent.

It is believed—by botanists and artists alike—that memory loss can occur when a subject, often the
children of carpenters, prolific, inhales a significant quantity causing a blockage to certain areas of
the brain.

It is noted that the consumption of nutmeg can also cause memory loss—if acute in application.

Facts such as these are in circulation at the entrance of the garden, within the shuttle bus—for
instance, it is known that the director of the garden is unknown.































In contrast to time, age had attached itself to the garden in a mathematical fashion.

Convex to the sun in its progress overhead, time had dissolved itself in its inequable love of earth.

Fluctuating in the light of a lamp switched on in dark conditions, in an effort to salvage the last
effects of the founder, which were on the verge of bankruptcy, bootleg or absence; open source as
they were at this time of year and available for theft, the hour had made itself comfortable, had
become stubborn.

For a stubborn moment, no visitor aged. The garden, like a zero, reduced everything it challenged
into itself.































It's (almost) time to stop

I'm afraid/ Sorry but it's time to finish (now)

We'll have to stop there

There's the bell/ That's the bell. It's time to stop

We've run out of time

They are waiting outside/ to come in

You'll be late (if you don't stop now)

We'll have to finish this tomorrow

Look at the time/ What time is it now?

30 seconds to finish that. It's nearly time to go

That's all (we have time) for today





Zoe Darsee was born around noon on a Tuesday. Later she founded TABLOID Press with poet and artist Nat Marcus. Her work has appeared in The Quarterless Review, Prelude, SPECTRA and TINGE Magazine, on Cashmere radio, TLTRPreß, and in collaboration with musicians Exael and DJ Paradise. She is a candidate for the M.F.A. in poetry at University of Notre Dame.