44.

A blotched leaf of a stubborn weed so pure
it contributes to the truth the sun tells
about its own disappearance. Brown flowers
do not speak of withered stars, but gardens
blossom disease-like in the honest decay
of ruins well lived in, of inhabited wrecks.

Words like a school of strange fish gather
around fairy tale castles the folly of clouds
because the void has no control over what
comes out my mouth: a bubble the tongue
can’t burst, your hooves making holes in the grass
where volcanoes of flowers erupt.

The necessary apology for the unnecessary
trifle of my mind, an unprepared dish
that might set with the sun, taking this moon-flung
storm down with it, a journey through the un-
derground sky, where great conversations
forget themselves to great purpose.