Prune what grows

abominable: let loose

that fierce intransigent alive

inside me, its will

like medicine to surpass

both wound

and latest cure, to be cruel

anticipation of winter:

self-erasing, deeply willed-for.

I grow and grow.

There's more of me

to come, you know,

tight coupling

of ambition with ambition,

though what else thrives

too quick I always kill,

even salmonberries

or the rare white aster.

Bounty this flush

is simply

poisonous, thus I'm my own

and bitterest pill:

internecine

interloper, hemlock coiled

at the oak tree's choked root.

Success:

what's worse than such

possession?

I beg people

take it all, take it off, strip me

of my richness,

but to no use:

I have to live

with what's overly

available. I tell you now,

Ms. Greenhorn Thumb,

Little Symbol Girl

Soured on Sweetness

and Plenty:

fear leakage, seep,

containment.

Pray for catastrophe.