Recurrence

That dream again— the parking lot

turns into a field spiked with beheaded

flowers. Each has a mouth

daubed in ochre,

eyes rimmed in darkest blue. I can't see

where their bodies have gone hiding

in the earth.

When snow falls,

the flowers melt under their fingers.

Their lids close as softly as sleep,

here and elsewhere in the universe.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.