TULIPS
The magnificent tulips I bought you
are dead.
Leaves jaundiced yellow,
necks flaccid over the collar
of the vase
heads arched up
to the sky
a last gasp caught
shadowing
the movement
of the sun.
Water a stagnant bile
puddling a rotten corpse
decapitated petals
naked
pallid
I look at them
one last time
before gathering up
their severed
limbs
(as the poet dies..............a splintering)
after Baudelaire
The slow decay of wings
lack a grace in flight
a dark terrible spiraling
the crowd its diverse entertainments to attend
scarcely notes the feathers
littering white the offal streets
thinking it part of the snow
music like plucked snow decays
with smell of shit and blood
his wing bones splinter as he walks.
