In the Weeds

I had thought to tell a tale but between having had & having thought
a plant fell out from within the crease.

I thought to have green fingers but I move so abstractly.

I am thinking now to describe what it’s like to touch something.
What is it to rub off on someone.

When two matters interact should I hope to keep my skin.

Ambling in the wind, lost in perfections, those blips
along the odometer of time, my feet in the weeds—

my head capitulates to them. Little plants, little events. That’s how

I think. A decapitation, a lovely guillotine wind lays my mind
in the weeds. That’s how

I touch a plant. My water touches its.