I'm in a bad shape—maybe a rhombus—
and I need to propitiate change. The wind has
the leaves and toxins try to integrate in excess
of capacity and you never, ever said what you meant.
I need to initiate strange into mundane manners,
matters. I need to niche a hard space into a bent
shape, maybe isosceles, and arrange the trees
to suit the dependencies of my distress.