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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.” •