There’s this flower bloom I can’t
misplace, it grows in slow
breaking skin-tight enclosures
once holding
in passions now
strung fickle and embarrassingly
outward.  It could be erased with a touch
of a finger, pressed
back into seed
to rise again brilliantly. I can smell its
broken green, pungently gathering
itself to show
another time.  It smells young,
as if hammered smooth of shame
lit lightly by sun-tips
features unseen to be beauty
placed blindly by