The climber blushes against the chain link fence.
A gift of rosemary and sage sing from their stalks,
root-wet and room warm, under the trash trees arms.
So alive, with a moss underbelly electric in the
middle of February- but bloated, too. A dead
descalled fish, muscle up to damn the sharp
watching eyes of a slivered night face. The turgid
straight-backed Russian tulip shoots will die
before May, despite their present determination.
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