Hothouse Flower
Hothouse flower steamed,
your petals pressed against the glass,
all your colors raining down
round boiling letterbox,
a letter from whom, they whisper
in the next room, is he tall, or
does he draw, is he masked
and does he ask
if you can dream of lifetimes past--
ice clay pallor,
will he wander
through the fog to find
your petals become waterlogged,
will he touch or want it much,
the frozen limbed and
green-eyed bunch,
inflamed until the heart is pounding,
all the doubts arise resounding,
passion proves a wicked thing,
to make you drunk on how it sings.
When you hear its first note calling
the poison song of coal black berry,
you will know its weight
to be more than you can carry
winter, summer, fall or spring.
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