the literary equivalent to ikebana

picking thoughts like flowers
prepping my bouquet
wondering is this all
—a poem really is?

composting buckets of trauma
feeding the piggish worms
trying to make better dirt
& make myself fertile

can’t manage fickle orchids
(though I’d love to)
dandelions are more my speed
not a lot grows here

even less, blooms.
I’d hire a florist,
but I bet they’d quit
& hunt simpler work

who wouldn’t?

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