"
No,
I cannot
turn from love,
in affirmation
with measured
finesse, like some
dull fuzzed cocoon
metamorphosing into a
bright-winged butterfly,
a tight-brown bud
transforming, with
sunburst halo, into
a chrysanthemum,
a five-o’clock
blossoming, with
daily gusto, into
full bloom.
No.
If I must turn from love,
it will be with
the cadence of an
addict flinging poppy
from tremorous grasp
while retched with
the effort of breaking
the habit, or a
gravedigger turning
daisy-filled clods
on a fresh made
bed.
