Each poem here wants to be alive. Each in her own slot of earth thinking of the larger plant from which she is a cutting. The larger plant is rooted in time and health. Here are twenty-eight single rhubarbs clicking together. The rhubarbs are a drawer full of handles. Take one up and see about it. You'll notice the foods do not grow with grace. They happen out of curiosity and stubbornness. The foods, they grow up just to grow. Thus, outlying rhubarb in places. Thus, hard clusters requiring patience for the getting through. Rhubarb-thick and crisp and wet-begets rhubarb. If a patch feels like a gang, just knock. Or try around the back and through the yard. Each plant here is in mild to medium danger. Or not. Thus, forth a reporter who takes the shape of you and I. She takes with her a pen! She practices our language but does not lick the dewy, English stalk. Instead, she chews it-a circulating handful of well-fed words. Through osmosis, lunch sinks in. Through osmosis, water. Speedy would be the speech were it elegant, but it is eager. Less in sense but still in awe and admiration and undeniable willfulness. Too, there is the doubt. Here is a record of starts, of nourishment, of heartiness, of growth. It could feed the plants like peels. The foods strange but friendly.