I’d always come home
from running and come 
across Don Daniel, sometimes
alone, sometime with his wife,

their possession of dirt,
a small, cramped country 
of ripe fruit, aloe vera, lavender.
The bougainvillea vines
would climb over my eyes 

as I walked down the block, 
the trail of spider plants 
dripping over themselves
so that I couldn’t see them
as they worked.