All the words buried
in the weedy turf
as the reader aerates
the pages put down
as sheet mulching.
Again, the words detach
from the action
figure, or, twisted
about, change shape
into a device useful.
The whole contraption
comes apart, piece
by piece, word
by word, the garden
gone to seed.
The poem is a blind
box, surprise hidden
within, issued, usually
in sets, for collectors
of poetry.
It sits on a shelf
like a music box
you have to pull
it down and crank
the handle.
The Coming of the Toads 
I’d crank the pump but the vandals took the handles .
Look out, kid, they keep it all hid.
Each word a symbol of a lost paradise?
Loss for words.