I left it under the potted plant
Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower
And asks me about the full moon.
There is glory in the gardens of the others
But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom
And made it seven words shorter
From a love poem
You were willing to write.
I fight the winds
And grasp his hand
I tell him, I am a gardener of words
–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–
A bag of off-shoots
Till they look like they have eaten time
Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,
Right before I unmade him
And went to sleep.
Image source: hiveminer