A garden of toys was planted before the inconstant heat of May
alive and sprouting quickly in the deep burnt soil
It was tended and neglected benign growth of mere edibles
now she gives it all away, hollow
A gourd-song from patched painted blueness
her private dance corn-bead down a row
strung past the endgame gone doggishly damp
empty, this inconstant symmetry of vine
Crooked neck and glory morning yellow
yeasty spray of tomato red as mad rose
wrapping the house in ropes of melon that
suspend, soft across the screen door we hang
This inconstant exit from her tangled fecundity
(a challenge of three poems with the word Inconstant)
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