When mold takes over a plant, the contaminated parts are supposed to be removed. If that can be done, it can be saved. The plant can be preserved. But if the mold starts at the roots, then the plant has no heart. There is no fighting sickness without heart so you better accept it. Your garden won’t have roses next year.
I bet bridges last so long
because they rust from the outside in.
I wonder what type of strong they would be
if not responsible for bearing the weight
of those who made them.
Or if this would be the reason they crumble.
Syllables of a language my life
has never given itself to learning
wring themselves out in a
cotton shower towel. Whether
based in the movement of magma
or the heat of a sun long since
elegied, I remain without the
ability to recognize them.
They all sound like you though.
Smell like me.
Winter froze sidewalks and
bicycle chains before
I realized he makes me foolish.
Now I wake up concussed
and blame him for the
unnatural movements of my
elbows and knees. We never know
how to present ourselves anymore.
He reads sense aloud
but it sounds jigsaw to my ears.
I can only piece together that
there is more meaning than
before. The corners of my mouth cannot
unbend. I do not understand now.
My bicycle chain is melting.