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.