I urge my plants
to grow untamed,
to beget untramelled,
uncontained,
the fieriness of the forest.
Its abandonment, splendour,
tongue-in-cheek mockery
of human indignance, and
of the abysmal human inability
to control.
I urge them to seek the sun
and to make love to the rain
with the unapologetic
unabashedness of the wild
and to burst with the defiant
defense of lust, into riotous flower.
I urge them to fall asleep at night
with the forest’s self-begotten silence
and to wake up,
virgin each day,
with the same confident air
of self-possession.
Only that I know,
that walled and cornered
within this periphrastic prose of concrete
their kinship with the forest
is long-since, sundered;
And as they stoically await
each morning,
the watering can
and the customary parted-curtain
greeting to the sun,
their poetry
of waxed leaves
is being written
in unconquerable foliages
light years away.
- from Moon in My Teacup (2019)
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