THE FLORIST

I wish I could say it with flowers,

A poem about flowers: carnations

Or violets, nouns; snapdragons, verbs;

Whole sentences of heather. Or I wish

My muse, that old bitch, were a flower,

A green chrysanthemum or a blue-black rose.

I remember, first time in the madhouse,

I finger-fucked a whole bouquet

Of flame-red dahlias. The attendants were amazed.

Even sane, I love flowers and can

Gaze at poinsettias for hours. For me,

The hyacinth still says alas,

And a pale narcissus reminds me of death.