The bindweed that has colonized the scrubland

beneath the high-tension wires of your humming eyes

came as one unsuspected seed fallen from the sprig

of something more noxious than laurel in the beak

of a wasted dove in the washed-out search for solidity.

Fallen

in the soil just good enough

to open up a kingdom of green entangling,

a wildly knit baklava pulled over the stranger face

of the earth, who for years would have rather had

nothing to hide.

Bindweed and high-tension scrubland

incredulous to itself.

I would ask your eyes, together with that wing-worn dove,

to perch in the shade of some kind, solid tree

and wait awhile for rest.