Vines

There’s a hole in the ground
covered up by dead tree branches,
black from being burned.
You see a million worms all swarming
at its uncovered edges,
and they melt from the heat
at the middle of the day.

Finding this place was inevitable,
they told you, carrying you on their shoulders,
pointing towards the light.
Never teaching you how to fight,
or question anything they said
about who you were.
You toss a rope over a limb
above you.

They want you lowered down,
and you give them what they want.
Just another stunt courtesy of the people
swapping hair dye and elaborate socks
for the art that is absent from their portfolios.
White pumpkins on gray vines
leaves like spiderwebs, motionless,
in the cold.