Tussocks of grass

Tussocks of grass,
two socks on the cement beside
the washing machine, and the wrong colors
,
have I ever been in love?

Where grape leaves are the largest leaves
in the garden, but
twining the bare air,
crawling on hands and knees,
where grape leaves are the softest shade
of dereliction, a veiny
corrosion,
don’t say love.

I pluck out things
that are hard to talk about
,
one item in particular,
it’s getting to me.

Plucked out,
try to say sublime,
and sound like a three-year-old,
plucked out,
the world gives you lip service and, behind
your back, a
snickering
, I’m sorry,
don’t say love.