Primula veris



Clustering atop a leggy stem
ten elf green bodices tapered down
to blown about yellow pinafores.

Near the ground a mob of blotched leaves,
belching and gulping, stiff with liquor,
watched constellations kink and bend
and languages drift from grammar to grammar.

Sister Mary’s favourite flower
cast a light on all the gougers
that she coaxed, effing and blinding,
to various degrees of joined-up writing.

One great arching cadence
glosses the world as a double spiral
speaks to itself with epochs for clauses

root shoot and flower
stitching together the heavens and the earth


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