Bloom (II)

                             David Teng Olsen, Mural, 2017

 

At sunset, this October,

            I picked some Nippon daisies, 

the last flower to flower,

            a verb named for its noun.

 

The weather was all indoors.

            A Page solo plus Michelangelo 

enameled in cerulean, tangles

            of what looked like instant ramen,

 

a heavy barge in the surf offshore,

            a spindly zeppelin down, the scene 

split by an architectural birch

            crisscrossed by laser blasts.

 

Dave added the sky one day,

            then blew our heads apart

by denying it had ever been a sky.

            A spider creature was our sons.

 

Their hair entangled meant

            they would now never be apart,

not their whole lives wandering

            in a world itself worryingly

 

wandering who knows where.

            Look, there’s a friendly bloom; 

Look, a vivisectionist, a severed wrist. 

            These thoughts our house had had about us.