After my expulsion from the country club
and the neighborhood association,
after having my memberships revoked
by the alumni association,
the birdwatching club, and Kroger,
I am moving into another part of town.  Here,

there is a small bamboo forest.  Kudzu
vines hood a walnut tree
and are riding a few bamboo canes down
to the ground.   Starlings
sit on the telephone wires

and growl at the cats
who trot quickly from shadow to shadow.


Every morning I sit on the porch
with coffee, and stare at the kudzu.

Then I take my pruning shears,
walk across the street, and duck under
the green streamers.
I cut however many vines I want,
which is usually between
six and ten.

But the vines grow twelve inches
every day in the summer.  Green
three-piece faces move slowly
through the grass

and flicker their long desirous tongues
in the sky over defeated trees.
And I sever a few arms
at the elbow.  Here and there.

It is natural, to feel
as if your actions are to no effect.

To understand that your life
casts a shadow
like gauze, or the call
of one bird.

But the walnut is producing.  Bunches
of the green shells appear
from underneath the vine mantle,