ISSUE: Spring 1979
I understand it is grafting,
this partnership of lost wills, common flowers.
That only perfection can be kept, not
its perfect instances. Snap-
dragon, what can I expect of you,
dress of the occasion?
So I am camouflaged,
so the handsome bones make me invisible.
It is useless. Randomness,
the one lost handkerchief at my heart,
is the one I dropped and know
to look for. Indeed, clues,
how partial I am to bleeding hues,
to clustering. Almond,
stone fruit,
you would be a peach, an apricot—
but see how close you can come without
already being there, the evening pulled in
at your waist, slipping over your feet,
driving them firmly into place,
the warm evening saying Step, anywhere you go
is yours, sweet scent in a hurry, to bloom is to be
taken completely—.
White petals, creaseless and ambitious,
may I break your even weave, loosen your knot,
and if I break you are you mine?
