Hothouse Flowers
If this is love leave us out. Green
Housed gardens from the street entice
But once inside who wants to be
Potted along with other plants;
Emparadised by appetites
While ours are jaded merely
On sight. Now no more clinging vines,
No more climates altered by change
Of light without the warmth and wet
Of bewildered intent. Confused,
Perhaps embarrassed by passions
That are not allowed to turn up
Enough dirt, give yourself a bit
More to earth, even if the horn
Of that new sprout impales your palm
The thumb print of significance
Must wind about the pivot of
A thorn and blood trace a circuit
Veining each leaf crimson before
Green dissimulations turn
The head as any lily can
By bending on its hollow stalk.
Despite us, green remains—of all
Colors eyes love—hardest to paint.
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