Sometimes I prefer not to untangle it.
I prefer it to remain disorganized,
because it is richer that way,
like a certain shrubbery I pass each day on Reba Street
in an unimpressive yard, in front of a home that seems unoccupied:
a chest-high, spreading shrub with large white waxy blossoms—
whose stalks are climbed and woven through simultaneously
by a different kind of vine with small magenta flowers
that appear and disappear inside the maze of leaves
like tiny purple stitches.
The white and purple combination of these species,
one seeming to possibly be strangling the other,
one possibly lifting the other up—it would take both
a botanist and a psychologist to figure it all out
—but I prefer not to disentangle it,
because it is more accurate.