Garden of Weeds

what is that with arched torso breeding there?
a closet of the sun enmeshed in spines,
they tickle thorns of roses, aren’t fair
and penetrate the lilies from behind
then spreading far and wider, squat and drink,
sucking on the toes of hyacinths;
caressing Peonies around their pinks,
bedding Sedum in their labyrinths;
covert in green, their color schemes enable
a seat with horticulture’s bluest bloods
and manners aren’t an issue at this table
where every root is firmly in the mud;
though showing up wild oats with every seed,
secretly all flowers envy weeds