How like that trickster kudzu
to wrap and slink itself
and every telephone pole it strangles
eventually into

The Agony of Christ,
His long, green arms outstretched
along the single strung power line.

His broken shoulders held and pressed against
the full fathom's length
of wooden spar behind.

The transformer hums
beneath His swell of chest,
above which hangs and sags
His Holy Head
and Crown

twisted from the weed itself
and thick glass knotted
insulator knobs.

And how in a week
the kudzu
and hint of its host-shape
will shift

into a lifting bird,
its wings outstretched, mid-flap,

or a green leap of match-stick flame
hovering above the striker's hand.