10.01.2020

hoping against hope for tropic damp, for heat, heat, four-season heat

How absurd you are—in the fake spring 
of a November greenhouse edging 
an east coast living room— 
to keep on blossoming! 

Parched leaves layer the lawn 
just beyond your branches, and on 
the dying elm a last thin few fling 
supplicant colors up and down. 

Naïve, the pinkish-red of rare roast beef, 
your ruffled petals preen and droop, as if 
hoping against hope for tropic damp, 
for heat, heat, four-season heat, 

and lovers, oiled bodies, balms 
of darkness, sleepy streams: 
although you may be dumb, you aren't 
shy, you flaunt your charms! 

I brood on the sofa with my drink, 
wondering at such temerity, such frank- 
ness about sex. You stunted fool, 
your flowers seem to think 

love can happen anywhere or any- 
time— 
         and yet your black-green bony 
leaves say no, say don't let go, 

say hang on to the salts of the earth, 

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