ON THE RESEMBLANCE OF SOME FLOWERS TO INSECTS

A smoky vessel drifts east like a slippery elixir. By simple rotation night collapses with its head in the dirt, though from the heights it appears more like cubist swagger. Suddenly curtains. What lives in a room takes on the spirit of the room. This is true even of television. Imagine deciding the gulley of life will follow as if choosing breakfast over diligent labor. I don’t remember my first brush with pollen, yet I’ve watched words flower sideways across your mouth. In a month we’ll be dizzily older. Moths will leave singed paper on the stoop. Is this my design? An ant crosses my shadow so many times looking for its crumb, I think it’s me who’s needlessly swaying. Its path is busy eloquence while I’m merely armed, like a chair leaving the scent of large things on the breeze.