The way grounds become tired
of being told or dreamt
and weeds, from the work
of growing unattended, unregarded
they’re ordinary, half-wild
and won’t be stopped easily
by the great mutants
the pests of language
attached and rootless in
the same unwelcome
beyond mirrors or concepts
meeting places
flowering and simply kidding
about being flowers
being sneaky and queer within
and beyond spaces
a bit part, a wall, a crack
broken field, a darkness
paths not quite flagrant
defiant and silly
a bitterness in fresh forms
taking and straying