Trent Nutting

With pruning saw nosed under root crown's
bulbous joint, he severs the vine's tough hide
from where its runner clings to red clay earth.

His shirt-back dark with work, he stoops
then stands knee deep in kudzu's shallows,
like a hunting robin pecking stippled leaves.

What was miracle-plant, foot-a-night vine
sown freely with a seed-bird's carelessness,
now havocs him with infinity, riots days until

its vitality dogs him through sleep.
He will chase his tail, trod circles,
pantomime to cut the stiff vines of the future

and wake nights with fingers vined in sheet,
a gasp like coming up for air from deep,
sawing against darkness and seeing kudzu,

swallower of detail, coating equally
barn and grave, tractor and pine,
until all grows beautifully indistinct.