Everything that grows here starts invisible.

He rototilled a quarter-acre.

Juniper down. Vibernum up.

Dawn redwood saved from the shadowing pines:

two pines down with the glue inside. Four hundred tulips up.

Pull the ones called weeds: Dandelion yes, hellebora no.

Cut the long grass yes, the ferns no, ferns spreading, unfurling tadpole evening.

We are genetically one-quarter related to daffodils.

He transplants the tadpole daffodils here by the stop sign.

By the oak trunk: an episode of tulips.

He planted the beating bulbs when it was cold.

Squirrels disassemble poppy patterns.

Dog kick. Dogs kick soil and piss on arborvitae.

Everything starts invisible, you don’t know where to step, then tadpoles.

In an hour the tulips will relax, like I am supposd to.

The daffodils didn’t bloom. There is no answer.

The tulips sometimes come back.

(I want to fall asleep in the poppy bed with the fat squirrels.)