If you don't get it out by the roots
with a little herbicide, for the certainty,
the assumed things become presumed wings
spread over the earth like a wax covering
melting and procreating and expanding
giving show to tell and blow to hell
a cocaine high's cup of coffee
a box of matches tossed into the sun
excess dribbling with extra excess
to put it plainer than a Nebraska roadside
you expected your river banks to be stable
and brought yourself the fallopia japonica
to get it done and done and sure
and here we are, together, invaded
by control and its downstream rhizome systems
spreading and rooting and breading loaves
with leaves and sheaves and greaves
eaves, even, unevenly distributed,
concatenated between the spout of superabundance
and the growths for growth sake
until the crash dashes
all those sweeter dreams.
Roman Ryan 