the Tibetan landlady and i ought
to concede our brown fingers. she can’t grow
tomato plants, hydrangea; i, no
hope for pothos, Pittsburgh ivy, aloe;
basil leaves, see-through. her son babbles all
summer in alphabets; barely does it
rain. i recall figs and vegetables always grew in
my grandfather’s backyard; and berries sprawled
toward roses, apples in my father’s
own. i pass a house on Melwood, my way
to and from my lover’s door, and there is
a garden, erupting like the Third Day;
inside, two old men awake together.
they get up from bed to prune.