The weed garden. Roiling

In stop motion livid from the earth

And seeds everywhere like snow, we were

Knotting the eely necks of the dandelion.

The sky moves more and faster yet.

I believe in the ripe smell

Of well-used feet. They are the rotten pears

Lost to us without a

sound, then we went down there, we

coaxed them forward from out the long grass,

The tangle weed.