Digging in a bed of guilt,
I grow marvelous flowers
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Digging in a bed of guilt, I grow marvelous flowers.
The trowel studies hard the language of the flowers.
The man, a teacher, had not been touched for a month.
I fingerfucked his ass while looking at the flowers.
My ass would like to think a knotted rope of hemp
does not injure the flesh much more than do flowers.
Love is a luxurious hurt, a limited choice.
I’m sorry, dear. Please forgive me. I brought you flowers.
This month I labor to transform ghazals to gazelles,
to flaunt this handicap: forty-nine names of flowers.
At four, the windows black, I labor to sit still
and listen to the sap rising, and then the flowers.
Look at him, read his poem, or Jee will disappear.
God looked hard and where his looks fell, there were flowers.