Violet is a ladyplant whose need
for rain and sun reigns violently.
See, Violet, the ladyplant prefers
simplicity, the vinaigrette, a matching
of components indivisible and weak,
like starlings and sky, the villainous
sky towards which she reaches.
Vinyasana helps. She vibrates
when her little islet feels overly
pliant. She fancies herself a Vidalia
onion aguing a vindaloo stew or
a nice vichyssoise on her few
good days. Those inviolate
good days, when she doesn’t feel
vicarious, an invalid, invalid,
a victim. When mundane items,
a hydrant for instance, resist
becoming something vile, a
trident with evil intent, for
instance. Mightn’t she enjoy pollen
riven by the gem cutter above?
Things as themselves: angular,
faceted, sugar. Sweet Guadeloupe.
Vile vines creep ‘round her planty mind.
