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.
petals