My wavery window glass makes it appear
something out there’s moving among the trees,
out where the woodchuck nibbles at the grass,
out where the raccoon feels that rabid whirr
like a lawnmower savage his nerves’ core.
As I shift my weight behind the glass,
tree bends to tree, unhelped by any breeze.
I hear them whisper, and I know conspir-
acies green with chlorophyll are afoot:
he’s sprouted leaves for manufacturing
his own dark sustenance; his parasite root
nurses at the breast of my decomposing
mother, and his blossoms broadcast spring
to hide the preparation of his fruit.