I like tea
And comings and goings
Of all those little twinges that press
Themselves onto me, bad lovers, and
Share-crop out my moments of joy.
I admire the paper pokes of words
That seem classic in their niftiness
Nothing is nifty any more. Blame
The distraction of mortality.
There is a sea before me
And, too impatient to let evaporation
Make salt crystals of the whole mess
I palm the foam off the top and use that
For memories, for decomposition
The corpses of merfolk.
I snap petals, if they’re meaty enough
The thinner breeds I roll into pulp
None are safe from my unwashed fingers.
A massacre of blooms, here in the garden
Why unseemly
Just because I prefer to murder flowers
At the blossom, instead of the stem?
