DS Maolalai

Something with acid.

fixed to the wall
in my grandfather's garden,
these wooden slats
grown empty as bones. creepers
won't take here
or any climbing rose - something with acid in the soil
and the brickwork -
now I grow fences
only and no privacy. a perch
for the occasional bird; once
there was a squirrel. mostly
they just sit, cutting the view
to squares.
I wander around, pick up dogshit
and wonder
if a world extends beyond this.
touch the tops of flowers
and wonder why they
can grow.
think of shovels
but leave them in the garage -
my body; all bones
and no exercise. skinny
as a plywood
fence-post,
without any crawling
vine.