Opened
between
void and
recognition.
The not
vivid.
Color
empty,
casual.
Unlike
memory,
bliss in dark-
ness, an
announcement.
Movement
outlined
not
contained
—a small
feeling, I
can’t, like
happiness
outlived.
A month.
The trim
clock.
The same
indignity:
elevator,
groceries,
an armload
of August
wildflowers.
My friend,
nowhere.
Duration.
To this
collapsing
hall, this
charging late
gold in summer,
my color.
—Eyes
close,
the answer
between
everything.
Peony.
Chamomile.
Marigold.
The flagrant
underworld
opened now
against
metaphor …
The moral
of the flower
is the
flower.
Copyright © 2025 by Miguel Murphy. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 8, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
