each just unspooling on sound and indeterminacy's metering indirect

poems, wanting them somehow to sing within gardening of neglect

a little bound space, growing in here, seeded, but again—neglected

somehow driven by me this leading but also suffusing it with absence

with uncertainty and other aspects my own anxiety distilling

is it failure of my own composure a neglect that destroys the merit

of this writing, that subsumes this into a wasted effort—each tendril

narrow arpeggios improvisation which extends in my our awareness

shared tongues of green