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,
forget the honey.
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