Passifloras (vines)

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.

The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,

Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking off premises

Of tangles meant to last a day, and yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too closely.

Knowing your tactful agreement, and who among the variant musicians it pleases

All I ask is consciousness. Embargoed by ease, rebellion perhaps, despite the darkening

In the floorboards, look to wine and worlds for inspiration, attitudes to our science darkening,

Where human bodies grow in the same way, as rope molding frames a converted farmhouse. 

An intimation of the troubles ahead, and with the moth wings composed, once again it pleases

Our notions of them, all clearly perishing; heavy hammers penetrating ever deeper to its fluid form,

Your bright shadow once again grasping at the corner of another memory, and watching closely
For someone catching, if not, then unobtrusive, upright, and honest. Not comely, the premises 

Observed, your sad morning face caught between the shafts. That, imagining missed premises

Pressed together like maypops. Hollow, with their dimpled seeds. What with a scale darkening
Without giving ground, your hand slips in the binding. Well aware of being abandoned, closely 

Pitching at the spike. All inside your head is demolished; a bet in exchange for your life, that farmhouse
Where some treasured species of mattock or rake is carried off, a garage transformed   

Into facsimiles of all the closets in the house. I longed to be back gardening, just as it pleases

To regrow your neck. Devourers, and not just our fruits, undergo a divisioning of circles so well-pleased

At preserving our saints. Without a doubt, each has that persistent botanic splice. Except our premises

Baked in pots; an afternoon rainstorm arriving late. Exchanges of a few words and nods formed

A few grains worth retrieving from the heap. But it starts you off again, your machinery darkening 

In the yard, perhaps the rest follows in its turn. Everyone but strays have left the farmhouse
To do a trade. We strain to hear the sex noises they would make. Coming and going, closely

Chiding ashes of last autumn's leaves. It comes like all tonic bottles issuing from here, closely,

Grasping for subtler taxonomic clues...