Deaths Of Flowers
I would if I could chooseAge and die outwards as a tulip does;Not as this iris drawing in, in-coilingIts complex strange taut inflorescence, willingItself a bud again - though all achieved isNo more than a clenched sadness, The tears of gum not flowing.I would choose the tulip's reckless way of going;Whose petals answer light, altering by fractionsFrom closed to wide, from one through many perfections,Till wrecked, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall,Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.
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