A yank around the branch for an unripe banana tree

makes for peels at the tears; an aggrandized detainee.

In three proper pieces, breathing spiff in the fog,

split flat on the soil,  in an envelope of slog,

it doesn't really matter because

nobody knows but you.

It only really matters when

the answer is ubiquitous.

A pupil to imbue

labradoritic hues

will disagree to acquiesce

and suffuse bleeding happiness.