every day
it’s all
the same.

together, it blurs. coagulates.
fills furrow-trod brain grooves
like grout. experience withers

on the vine, in the leaves, leaves
little brittle dust-skeletons
decomposing on the bathroom tile

so deficient they can’t grow a garden—
only this greying grieving heaving
metastasising mass breathing

again again again
once more once more
the same the same the same another

and it’s so hungry, so starving, chews
through days-nights-weeks-months
as a cancer through fat cells;

never-happy never-different
it gnaws gnaws gnaws.
and that is meant, designed,

like nature intended; growth
squirms in life’s very bricks. assign
a label like “malignant” or “benign”

and it makes no difference.
why should it? no bugs here,
claims cog-chunked adage;

only binary fission
working onward and upward,
strictly as written.

layer upon layer
it’s all
the same—

the same dust             the same scene
the same window       the same tree
the same road             the same creek

the same roof              the same sky
the same twigs            the same leaves
the same fence
                 dirt
                 earth
                 grass
                 tarp
                 plank
                 and peeling paint

—until calcified. tiny memory
root-webs sepulchred in cement,
immured. tack-stuck spindle-feet:

a fly encased. resin-trapped?
we call it amber. carve a neural-path
immortal in the plaque, become gods.

but in this field paved
perfectly ironclad,
what room is there

for nascent green?