Not About Flowers

Lengths of living sisters
giving birth and twisting
their tracks behind them

upward to the brain and autoerotic enstrangulations,
the always source of poet’s choice–

some vice, some inhabitant
that would not vacate the property
without first blanching all the walls with lye,

a stamen by any other name…

My apologies to the same:

the rows of careful cultivation
and pain waiting on the tips
for fingers too curious

or flexed with unearned strength.


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