***
not that i ever
let inauspicious autotrophs
rise and galavant gaily off in
victorious procession–
but still it is with
faint water, pale water, icy
bereft of vitamin and conciliatory coos and
soothes) vinings lovely walls do make
here fed upon flesh and vein and
in their season, fail to
bud. lurking behind is still
swimming in sprinkling flicks of
light and washing only in pieces
and bits, hands before a meal.
still– perhaps a trellis could be too
a ladder and not
merely a series of exes
or a closed and creased book of
“how not to”
***
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