While the plural twist

of its tendrils

corkscrews through time’s

fleshy phellem,

passion training to the trellis,

a length of vine

veers away

from the structure,

its tensile springs outstretched,

the little whips, alive, umbilical, craving,

and I—my poor eye—

could weep

for the child in me,

the bloodred blossom

all tangled up with salvation.