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.