The Flowers

“This crooked flower, twisted yellow tortured body” - W.C.W.

The flowers are drowning me

In overpowering harmony

And generation.

A petal from a plum blossom

Gives my fingers sentince,

Gives memory, gives flesh

That can't forget

The ragged that doesn't fit

Or inhabits the hills.

The cardinal's song

Becomes red, becomes insistent

Fiddling, fiddling with words,

Fiddling that fills slowly

Hollows with lonesome ways

That wander wonder.

Read deeply of air.

A flower doesn't grow

In the twinkling of a line.

Birds sing but what you think

And feel doesn't change

The shape of a stone, or.