In their pots beneath a glassy sky
the children wear their ribbons
into foyers and parlors as do the trunks
of trowel-shaped leaves still around them.
Tangling its roots toward the water table
and stretching its uppermost tendrils
for its share of the sun, the rural vegetation
crawls and sprints, climbs and burrows,
pruned only by the space between the stars.
The crotches that hold nests beneath
the backyard's white-washed magnifying glass
would tumble against a wind or fry
beneath industrial acid, a dried weed on sand.
Deep in the darkest thickets of concrete
and asphalt, where humans are most themselves,
the lion and war elephants roll in and trample
the flowers to feed on each other's carcasses
and to water themselves beside the artificial rubber tree.
Here, the ivy and Norfolk pines witness
the construction of greenhouses and their malls
before returning wealthier from the paws and maws
to the slow cooking of a tv screen.