The Inarguable Flowers

You are getting divorced.
Farewell, Congratulations, Welcome Home.
Here, affect this balaclava.
So you put a large bouquet
of pink daisies in a window of full sun.
The daisies are innocent in pinkness,
there are not enough of them,
so tall and wide is the vase.
It is clear crystal, a bellowing
of a bell of tuba mouth,
but only a lip of glass
to support what it’s saying,
or almost so, in being there.
But it is svelte as the heart
of all glass, the desire
to just be silvered, become
a mirror, be done with it.
At least, you think, there is
no ridiculous, portentous
sound such as comes
from a euphonious brass
as morose as that one
can only be, at its orchestral best.
The vase is frugal IKEA,
so let’s intuit a purity of intent,
a touch of the mind of Sweden.

These pink daisies support you
as the sun supports them
now on the stone windowsill
that overlooks the living below,
though the flowers are dead.
Well, not yet. But soon.
Though they are dead,
they sing a sun’s praises,
all the pink daisies,
because the stems they have
would have them finish
what it is they had begun,
and are still quietly drinking,
whatever it is there you give them,
water and an aspirin,
maybe a place to reflect their pinkness,
the city window directly before the units of their faces.

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Lakeside

Panicked bubbles come from fish
down under a sheet of ice.
Screams will come from rabbits
taken by talons or fangs
in the winter, go into bones.
The moon comes into your bedroom
through that same opening,
as you sleep. And you bolt up
to see yourself in a dark mirror
across the room. But in the image
you are lying back, deeply asleep,
amused at what the moon’s fingers
are doing to you. You have apparently
fallen out of your own dream.
Separations like these routinely happen
to those who sleep around
a winter lake.