The English ivy blossoms in the yard
as ugly as the fungus where a tile
lost its grout, tenacious and as hard
to lose. In shape like jacks collected while
the ball allows, they’re wasp-attracting sprawls
of pestilence and immortality:
pale-toned and too prolific, like the calls
of telemarketing vitality.
Beneath peculiar sky the flowers spread
their awkward shapes, their undistinguished scent,
their stupid futures. Better they were dead
than uncontrolled. Better if they went
away with eucalypts. No garden needs
these rampant vines. We ought to call them weeds.