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Vegetation grew on the heart valves.
Jones' hand, inside the clematis,
a knife,
verdant vines.
Fifty -- no -- a hundred carp, fins,
upstream, as far as the eye can see.
A tree climbs a bank, out of water,
wearing green and blue.
Claire removes her heart, places it on a stone,
scrapes the scales loose with the back of a spoon.
It's still flopping.
Never-Land makes a speaker-popping sound.
There were no specific symptoms.
Her blonde head, someone said,
 Reside.
Clouted. She'll wrap the fine.
The tree pours MD 20/20, excuse of necessity,
burns the crotch right out of the jeans.
It was just generally the length of time
she wasn't feeling well.
It could be fungal, it could be bacterial,
It could be microbacterial, as well.
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