The morning glories,
gone rogue,

travel grass-fringe
pf alleys, of battered cars,

many gone still
as money in their houses.

Years of a.m. walks,
my quiet greets

theirs. The deer
and their children

will die, and then me.
But the purple

twining flower
will still unfurl

stars, a thirsty
twisting like lust

in a slow motion
of years. But what

are years to you,
weird god?