Conversing
I cannot invoke bouquet;
withering and dying before it passes my lips.
Implausible
that it could rest
in the quietest recesses of me,
nestled along side
precious
and slender –
huddled together
in this hostile land.
I’m allowed
the close landscape of
jigsaw and gerrymander;
stalemate and sawdust;
hash marks and hypotenuse
(and hypotenuse),
stretching out
connecting the angle
of my bouquet
just out of your sensing.
written: December 22, 2017
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