This perforated two-handled pot
firmly seated up next to the fan
grows a vine. It glints waxy green
on hot days. Tentacles
weave spills
like locks from Rapunzel
all-the-way-down-to-the-sill
which I trim, so more will wind
through the clay holes
and off the cracked rim.
Knob-handled pots should be sus-
pending so smoke wends abroad
in all directions fending off wicked intentions,
too multifaced to submit
to my tending.