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

  

 

 

 

WARNING: 18+

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