Chrysanthemums

Chrysanthemums

Sunny little faces
On my kitchen table

A moist overgrowth of leaves

Towards which I reach
Turn you over
Slow
Measure by finger
Your unresisting length
Your close-huddled width

Soft
Feel the smooth wounds
Which were stings.

Blinded
Clip your dripping stalks,
Gather them in

Your pale beauty
Abides in my room
Propped up by the neck
Of my only porceline vase

Your yet unstained faces
Giving out
A dying smell.