You shook the seeds first from your tired fist
wearing coyote smiles,
saying you’d buy me a new one someday,
when we were ready and work was round
and the helping wasn’t smaller than our need.
I saw shade between where you were going
and what you wanted to remember,
a residue of chemicals.
Just a spot for spoil and what you’d kept for these instances.
I wanted to plant so deeply then, to keep the grudge and movement.
Morning came and
the bath drew in the heavy way that water moves.
I found you emitting a Magic-Marker scent.
Juvenile, uncomplicated, you spat
without letting me along.
You’d been on your bike,
wearing your hat
so hair in hand you thought you might amuse me
into some appointment.
I watched the grey plans get dry
when once they were pliable and active.
There was no room to grow
so I tucked in my toes, my longest eyelash,
and leapt backwards for a garden.
