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Tomato miscues
in pots
-- is it
snails? Slime,
broken, leaf
agleam, but vine
vultures
flut, strut, in day,
no matter sun
glint.
Holes poked,
stretch
tomatoes. I know
autumn,
flies hide
in ooze, red
popping.
Still polish
outside skin,
wed, when
we grow,
we hide like that?
Sacks
of uneaten fruit,
webbed
street cracks
and no spiders.
A brown yard
undulates
morning glories,
a take over.
This dress makes me
seem pregnant
(but not in wind), waxy
sunlight plays
summer,
but it's not. Wind lies
for fruit of earth,
from off-screen
ground. Squirrels
nettle, dead
tremble -- recalling
all the green rind.
My face
thick, dimpled sweat
creases.
There is no rise
in feeling, if we
started
over again.
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