Fail in fine tendrils; grow there, if nowhere else.
Leave your luggage packed with
scandalous items, telling items...
(you needn’t mean to). I swear!
—it’s true, fail by dec’rative means,
Sextonisms, copious drinks, come on
to your daughters in bed—flee
from any encountered hell, only to
act one better in privacy.
Pare too deep for a whole satisfaction,
miles of soil dredged below blight
that you’d aim at—more space in
the surface, more pores for cupping at the rain.
-2004
