the lush lip of
a dewy petal, suede and pale,
bruises are a hazard that blares
sharply in diffuse fragrance,
crushed veins, a slowly drooping head …
shamelessly to be discarded by the eye.
the flower has more in common
with the grave beneath it
than with the feet that trod above.
one keeps running from a given,
the other knows:
there’s nowhere else to go.
Hot Chocolate And Books 