Rows of carnations line
the pickpocketed grass.
My hand, swallowed
within a pistil. Wreaths spill
from lilac ribbons, guttered
with rain. This clearing:
rustled with pine and hooves.
The morning’s halo
stutters into my opened mouth.
Stained with prayer.
Brimming the ocean below:
my black-windowed
town, blooming, drowning,
windless. A musket flayed
in a field of freesias.
The thousand glinting petals.
I don't want to go home.
Crumbled bricks, pamphlets
stained with salt. Mother's
street, black-tarred, whistling,
whistling. Always the same
dream: palm smeared
in asters, azaleas cresting
a liver, hands scaled
with chipped verbenas.
Home: I dig my hands
wrist-deep into dirt. Coat
my tattered body with litanies.
Shreds of parchment surround
my feet: a certificate of surrender.
Clasped in my fist, a bouquet of carnations
bowed down to the ceaseless wind.