I can see your face through the grapefruit leaves
black against your skin.
Juniper berries in the alcove where you grabbed me.
The basil here is purple, pinched at the ends.
We must rip out the bad spinach to save the garden.
The hoe, the rake, the scissors.
Fertilizer like liquid amethyst.
A murder in insecticide, in chrysanthemum,
in the slant of light born from the slant of the sun.
I will protect my orchids.
A smell like roses, or old books.
Sunflowers look down with black faces,
at a certain hour their shadows mark the loose brick
and you have become the sundial,that stripe across your left cheek: almost evening.