As an animal, I am separate from plantsPulled ivy from the roses till my hands bled. Picked clumps of fragrant basil, then refused it. I am playing out a game with plants, which ones die, which ones to eat. This makes me master of a particular domain. I experiment with master feelings. They come easily. The roses bloomed quick this year. I pick them decoratively and then discard. A skywriter struggles above and I laugh. They let any man fly planes, any man spell. Misshapen letters cloud the sun. The shadows are illegible. I am alone in this garden, rooted to nothing. My arms do not tendril against cement. I cannot pay them enough to do this. I pay for coolness and for shelter from the sun. I am not mottled by most accounts. My lungs and my skin are that of beasts. I’ve been holding in this smoke for a century. Come now to understand the difference between scissors and shears. Allow nothing to enter but the shapes of letters. A salve as we recall all tools of manufacture. The sound of the sound your mouth makes when a thorn sticks electric. What I thought was vegetable is the cat in the flowerbed, illiterate, scaling this fence.
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