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.