I Recall That Li Po Considered Death Final

Here, each bud pushes to taste

the pollen of another.

Among the henbit, a luffa

rots like the limp guts

from a two-way radio.

As I lift, it tears.

It bristles in my hands

trying to find its place.

The gourd frame is composed

of wires that carry the language

of the present moment.

All those broken filaments,

irreparable like the circuits

that attach memory,

like the words in an elegy

in which no one is mentioned.