sweeps across wet acreage in unsealed containers,
an obvious rot. Down this cobble beach foxed with foam
& cushions & native diesel monstrosities,
each sweetgum’s foundation erodes, revealing roots
like hardened arteries, their vessels plugged, sap drying
while an empty whiskey vial clunks perfect time
on those untapped veins of nylon graying the shore.
And along the path to the parking-lot, rogue plantings
of the intendedly ornamental rage:
Nandina domestica, vast colonies stemming
voracious, a songbird’s feast of noxious seed,
their purebred leaves bipinnate & burgundy
& indicative of a garden’s errant
memory or the consequence of wings. It surrounds
this understory, smearing orchids, draining light,
guiding derelict woods toward thick monotony.
In fifteen million years, future scavengers might find
yet another nandina fossil hidden under
what was once this Carolina, sigh, and chuck it
on their growing rubble heap to once again
blemish tired earth. And if I were among them,
far in that false beyond, I might be tearing
& tossing my share. But today, winter, near Christmas,
dog-tired & beat-down without any guiding star,
carmine shrubs grow close as neighbors. My greetings
land in their arms like wind long sick of being empty.
