A Kindred Kickass Inexplicability

for Jesse

Plants and I don’t get along, but Jesse gave me one
and somehow it’s surviving, even thriving: boosting from
its pot all muscular and thick and strong and broodingly alive,
ejaculating new tough glossy sprouts: each rude remorseless
baby leaf’s a thief: steals space, thrusts up and out,

insists on its existence – crudely barrels into just the sort
of business one imagines god was all about when he or it
or they or she had the audacity to wrangle matter out of energy.
Enigmatic magic, growth: wherein lies, how does it find, its lift?
Poems are a kindred kickass inexplicability, illicit gift.

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