for Tim

And what came of it all is still falling
No way to suppose how the pieces
of this rose fit or what pattern
the petals will fall in, matter of fact
there's the beauty of it, to revel
in the opportunity to not be the architect

Once, a city of fingernails grew
From this embroiled, razorcoiled
hanging garden dropped battalions
of ripened fruit, hunched and ready
this crop grew to prune itself

Thus leaving the nails to grow
another race. One after another
dropped into the stew, come
to perfect a manicured face
This chitinous fortress a tomb

Once, a pretty breathing firestorm
flew from each other's lips
and scalpelwired eyes, a coalition
of the lit. Relay trance

Magnification of distant concerns
Zero avoidance. Hidden yearning
Perhaps for reassurance where
the park benches are made of claws


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