For A Day Not Yet Come
I’ll send daisiesbecause they’re already dead,bias cut for a fewlast capillary pullsof aspirin-tinged water –soon to cataract, milkyin a leadcrystalvase. These are no “love me’s” or“Love me nots”.These are from he who knowsnot love, but beauty – decay. My darling little Aster,this is the day of your death,another year counted,backward from a birth,as each petal […]