Every root in me confronted absolutely,
undressed and resheathed in wrongs
that must be met with action, that action
must take itself against. Am I involved?
No but still the perpetrator, all the evidence
sorted, the lines crossing. This office must
be in a basement. No other explanation
for how taut the light pulls. When she
releases me, the head of the flower is
too heavy for its stalk. A bout of warm
weather, a breeding program bent on
distension, the births eerie, consecutive.
Compress me, if you want to. Water digesting
into soil. This process, too small for logic.
