Weeds are the last plants to parch, the most
determined to find moisture in the grit.
My young man with his shined shoes, he grows weed
grit steady up the side of everything, a creeper
creature finding holds and bedding in. Tobacco-grit
weed-gravel he and I too close
grit skeletons and share water. I don’t want
to garden; it’s too hot for weeds.