The plants in my bedroom,
I forget their names, are dead.
Dried up, both of them.
Negligent homicide, if you must
call it murder. I'll confess
that I enjoy their corpses.
Dried leaves don't cry out for anything.
Brown vines don't climb everything in reach.
A plant will dominate, if you lavish
too much water on it. I never do.
These two creatures are suspended
animation, one completely brown
his phallic stalk, shrunken.
Long leaves, curled and coarse