Beady is the weed that grows
where I tried wildflowers instead of lawn for you
as if by intention I could create the wild, which I did, but
in a more wilding way, the way you twist,
the helix of a vine on a weed late summer excess.
Beady on the rock, but less, impenetrable, except
absorbent too, this rock among rocks on a rock
orbitant, a drop exultant on the flat of the belly of
the stone, rolling over to fall sleep on
the hard-pack flower bed in the backyard.
Beady on the glass until the sun rises
high enough, that’s it, just a bit more, almost,
to wake the already wakened, on the east-facing slope
as it elevates from the shore, past the few trees
that can grab the flesh of the bluff and hold it.
Beyond that to the road, running orthogonal, to me,
here, frozen, a fractal of you.