Flowers Bore Me
mh   2/4/98


I never think of flowers,
why bother with them?
their stench,
their petals -
I'd rip them off one at a time
like some vegetated Far Side calendar.
and from five there were five thousand
I'd make Icarian wings with the petals
and fly to the sun.
They would not melt like wax,
but grow, and the sun would become a bulb
  of a different sort:
  sprouting forth me and my wings into a cosmic
  cocoon of a rose.
My pollen would become stars;
the solar system, my garden;
space, my backyard.