Rutting and grubbing among my weed–
hoard, I exercise muscles and certain
prerogatives. I make definitions:
this is apt, should grow here, and that
must die. My scrubby patch,
which weeks ago would barely pass
for grass, attains a touching plausibility,
shaping towards my fond notions of a garden.
The artful prune mercifully
but I, like a mad dentist, butcher
straying plants and hold up the violated
tap-roots, white nude and blinking their
fine hairs in the unseen light.
Slowly my mongrel grasses achieve
a kind of illbred harmony.
This newly-made decorum prevents
my saying what activity it resembles:
only there seems something
approaching divinity in it.