From the Fishouse

I too have turned
to the yard

turning the yard
into

frustration of flowers
I have felt for

a knot in the soil
coaxing pulling at

bindweed roots
pulling gently so

they give
half inch by half inch

the vines wound
silently violent

round the necks
of black eyed

susans
Name each

flower and the yard
loses

ground becomes

brunnera bleeding
heart bearded

iris peony purple
coneflower lupine

lily
I enter

the garden
I enter hackles raised

One finger then two three
sliding into the earth

It falls away from itself like
cake crumbs

If I lower my mouth to it
I can catch the grains

of dirt on my lips
sweep them

away
with my tongue

A man who wanted to tie me
to a tree once licked

raw sugar from
my open hand

a policeman he wanted me
to behave

like an animal
From yard to garden

misprision a prisoning
measure of space

I hold up my hand and
drizzle strikes at

every target but my palm

I cannot be touched
by anything above me