In the small wind a piece of golden grass
curled presumably while green and fixed
in drying twists and flys and hooks the dead
bud of a leafless vine grown down a thick
cable (internet?) zip-tied to a drainspout
whose paint flakes off to reveal steel while other
pinkhaki plates bent only enough to cover the
last tie above the fence midst me
and the caught twitching hay
and so stayed part of our entwinement.