Now the invisible, indivisible
terrors have places to crawl
silently (while infant voices squall),
for the garden has become a jungle.
In the last week of May shooting
up, a green explosion, everywhere:
deceptively steady in present looking,
if I turn away they'll be there:
'What time is it, Mr Wolf? -
tender tendrils and monsters too,
tapping on windows while I sleep,
dragging me up from gulfs,
threading their presences through
morning beads as sun climbs steep.
..