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This fascia has been painted once before
Some time within
the last millennium;
Truth to tell it needs to be replaced more
Than to be painted; the wood
is dead and numb
But soaks up every primer stripe that swipes across its grain.
And—used to rain—in fluid mathematical dripping,
The plant below in manner of a tarpaulin
Catches paint, and droops, overspattered, slipping
Beneath the puddles, shielding and guttering,
Identical leaves angled to catch the fallen
Drops and sled them down to wet the soil,
Prime in their arangement, spattering
The wrong moisture, using the natural coil
That lifts them in a downpour, now catching
Poison; even the most natural of things, no
Matter how mysterious can be used for good
Or commonplace most likely, or fierce evil.
Indoor-outdoor latex drops as soft as rain,
And shares its falsehood
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