who says dead things

can’t grow live things

on the shelf,

colonies bloom

over brownness,

raining acid
bruised tomatoes

roll about

the potted fern
even a poem

can be skimmed

from polaroid gloss
fatherhood,

from blue flare

in the right lens
at dawn,

my dreams drift

near the ceiling

in a tangy mist
from the silence

of the street

rises honking,

rattle of gates
you can parse

a sentence

with first and last letters

of each word
even when all words

are sourdough