you plant your hedges like
you’re building a fortress
like the tap is a treasure you need to come at with a hatchet.
roses.
agave.
that bougainvillea bastard.
a whole medieval army
guarding a weathered spigot.
and me,
crawling through thorns
with sunburnt arms
scored like Peruvian pepper bark
just to give your geraniums
a goddamn drink.
it’s not hard.
just leave a little room.
a chastened niche.
a breath of space.
I ain’t Moses
parting the burning bushes.
I’m a man
with better things to do
than bleed
for your begonias.