Even with my nose up here at six foot something I know

The color brown is sweet: this putrescence

Embarrasses no one: the petals treacly vessels jangling

Overhead yesterday have taken a hint and gone down into

The real grit of things: where better than the sidewalk

To speak achingly: I could go on: I’d say love makes us

Amenable to certain minor probable disasters: but what

I mean by love is spring: overeager and almost enough

To make me wake up and like the insides of my mouth

A little more: the petals talking vivid now: they say

Finish your work and come back to us: we want to be

Nearest: we know which of our atoms were once in you: you

Who are a flower-machine: who are a blossom for meaning:

The scent of sweeter senders: the slobberiest part of the kiss: