Are climbing everywhere. I haven’t staked them
and they’re latching onto whatever will help them grow;
the handle of the rake I left out all night; the front
wheel of the old rusted machine by the fence line; the
tall weeds behind them; each other.
And their desperate pushing is faintly crazy. In
the way we are all crazy when we try to remember
where it was that this happened before in just this
way. Like a suicide rummaging for razor blades, a
deaf man teaching himself to whistle.
— Maggie Anderson