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


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,


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


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


plant—which is not my

strong suit.


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