The plant in the room is bothering me.
The plant in the room is sharing my air.
The air in the room is syphoned through the plant.
That bothers me. I try to ignore the plant
because the plant in the room is affecting me.
I have entered the plant’s area of influence.
I am vulnerable. This is the power of the plant.
When I am close to the plant it is not my space.
The space belongs to the plant. The plant is hanging
in my window like an execution. I have executed
the removal of the plant but the plant remains unaltered.
The plant is a collection of Post-it tabs, an impeccable
farewell to government. Thomas Wyatt was brought a plant
in a tower. Imagine how that was for him, a poet
in a stone room with blood and leaves on his shirt.
Either all or no angels arrive in the mind where the plant is.
A motion of imagination next to no motion. The present
moment. A boat with a hole. The plant sits back.
A wheel makes one revolution in fifteen years. How long did
Thomas stay? The plant drilled the militia into the hearts of butterflies.
Twice I dreamed I was a woman in the Salem witch trials.
The plant knows my life, early and late. The shed. Behind it.
Maybe an iron rooster on a roof. The plant wants coal and alabaster.
The plant bores through me like a fist through a wall.