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A Few Weeks Old

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The bloom


is dead, but still


purple, just darker, and flecked


with mustard-gold, peeling in petals like old banana skins, curling


up


in fetal bits at the foot of the black dirt, yet holding


several pale shoots of green, inside


the room where there is no


rain. And not enough light. (And never enough


said, although both breath and intent flood,


inch


by inch,


up and down my stems into cerebral consternations


that never seem to make it in tact, in full, fleshed


out in fresh and numerous explanations to your ears: my reasons


for the dripping eye sockets, the off-color scars


on my memory lists, the rings


on pink wrists, almost white, from old habits, and the empty


space on that one particular finger on the


left


hand. The un-done string of sound


probably won’t make it past


my teeth, my tongue, my aging extremities,


much less to an echo


upon your drums, a space by your brain that, I think,


might lead to your heart,


if I let myself consider it


rationally.) I did remember


to water


the


plant—which is not my


strong suit.

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