birthday
In evening I fetch flowers /
for my hostess’s birthday tea /
from the back yard. I think /
of brain history: choroid fissures /
of plaster of Paris: Kenyon’s cells /
an electric storm of earwigs, of circles /
dwindling to whorls /
whorls to lines, /
and so I trace the lines of my forehead /
and nose. I reach for a stem to behead— /
all-flower for my corsage. /
It-all looks at me, so as if to ask, /
“Lovely, please let me go?” /
“Let me go? Please let me /
reduce into bright bits unpedaled?” /
Firmest plant, the prettiest Gods, /
all willing me that one touch should be enough… “Let go, Love, /
of Your hold, Your turn, /
let Us pass. Turn, and drown.” •