The weed wants so much
to hurt like an animal
but he is simple
and can only keep track
of one goal at a time. An ugly
and agitated shadow circles him—
it is the horses stamping
at the end of their wits,
letting their swarmed eyes
be lashed by the others’ tails.
I am always becoming as you
have need of me to be,
says Jesus, and the weed
may as well be saying it.
Like lovers finishing
each other’s sentences
the two have grown
inseparable.
They even dress alike
these days, since each
has sheathed one of his many
blades in tender purple.
