He’s in my monad.
This means we fall from the same tree;
Roll down the same roots,
And we germinate in the same air.
But what he doesn’t get is to where he spread;
His tendrils caress an antithetical force —
A messy mat of heat and fabric —
That makes him sweet and sour
And which reads him as such fondly.
Whereas I sit a lichen to my rock,
Otherwise the same as him, yet —
So much a spade I am magnetized to them,
Virtually ignored by even the hungriest animal.