What April Proscribes
To pick a tulip from the garden, the red one. To put it on the desk In the small blue vase, here. No, Here. To incline toward it then, as if the flower could teach me something Of its art. Of my own art. When did we forget we were knit by waves, Not mind? Fomented in dirt, brazenly We rose from all fours and, from the wrenching losses of dusk, Conjugated our lullabies. To hear the red of the tulip searing air. And understand color, Then, as a way to parse The shy boson. The corals, dying. The man with burning eyes Who came up to me on the street today, asking for change. Anything, Miss, he said, then leaned in, conspiratorial. Just to get through.