there are people who talk over other people
for fear they’ll miss their train—their watch set for 5 billion years from now—
when the sun will explode with all admired yellow vases in camouflage.
we implore the gardens, my life is fleeting
do not disappear. a man says, my wife is crazy,
or is it that, she simply can’t hear? the blooms, the
superlative man and the interrupters (i’m sure i’m one)—all socks,
hanging neatly on the line.