I’ve planted a garden of words in these pages
and plucked a few flowers for you.  

They are awkward and tiny; I only hoped
to make them right when they reeled
          drunkenly off my tongue.  
My mouth makes them ugly, brutish, plain…
speech that stains the air.  And I hope
for my mind to grow roots in yours
and make its home
together with you;
there will be time for every strange, beautiful thought.