Contamination

Handsome weeds, you signal the breech 

Of the septic. 

Tall there and talkative you arrange 

Yourself in modernity’s shape, those

Clean lines embroidered in your 

Succulent green.        O you live well 

Off that blackwater failure. 

Towering, lithe, you press at the 

Threshold—the concrete hull, the

Smaller ideas, that wobbly thinking 

Which undergirds waste. 

O you stall me, weeds.     How you slurp opportunity out there. 

How you convert those ruined dregs. 

Come in: unpack your flowers. 

Yellow my whole house

With pollen and seeds.       Spoil my garden  

With your reckless fruit.