the child is wild sprout
a vine bomb exploding
across the habitat
probing a thousand paths
before you can martial up the texts
call on Jesus or Buddha or other docents
you imagine might shape
this beast of blossom
but the child is at work
faster than you can rise
and rub away the sleep
the child has already shot
down thirsty roots through the stone
foundation, cracks like neural folds,
spreading out beneath your sliding
feet, sucking up the decay
of the past and mixing
with today’s harsh unfiltered light
a volatile concoction
of who-might-be
and all you can do
is hide the damn matches
