How like that trickster kudzu
to wrap and slink itself
and every telephone pole it strangles
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
twisted from the weed itself
and thick glass knotted
And how in a week
and hint of its host-shape
into a lifting bird,
its wings outstretched, mid-flap,
or a green leap of match-stick flame
hovering above the striker's hand.