I am jealous of the brave ones
who know well how she smells
the lady of the night,
and can distinguish the subtleties
of anguish, of despair.
While pusillanimous I here
can’t stand to be alone,
unable to discern
a friendship from an implement,
resignation from wait.
When they do it, everyone turns
to marvel at their guile;
they make me want to spit,
what with all of their confidence
such beautiful sculpture.
Outside, a mint plant that won’t thrive,
envious of fast-growing
clover, expanding, choking,
veils its few tender leaves, slowly
withering in the shade.
Once, I tore at the attacker-
a true mint-Messiah-
only to discover
would-be disciples are best kept,
at least some what, in the dark.