The panic vine quickens on the spine with the rise
and fall of every breath; and blooms inside the eyes.
A cold fruit bulges from the veins of wrists and arms
to bleed a virus juice into our sueded palms.
We spread disease when our begloved infrequent rites
of greeting are performed. If we exhume the roots
that lie in nightsoil bedded with the lungs of crows
roots watered by the coiled insistent garden hose
cold-framed against the thorn the analytic wind
the dazzling showers of the thundering sun bird blood
the grey goose feather and the white mare-mother’s cud-
if we expose these roots to weather and to wound
they would survive and we could bear the scattered rose
the spattered foal the honking flight and the sun’s alms.
The Panic Vine
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