the
flowers
dont
know
the
flyboys arent coming around no more
and
their
adolescent bruises
wave
AVAILABLE anyway
like
girl-women
painted with rainbows
crossing
white socks
on
country-fare hay bales
but
its
cold tweezers in vinyl gloves
that
pull
at
them
without love
instead
the
flowers
dry into brown wicker widows
put
out
on the back step
wearing
just
the impotent tickle
of black spiders
laying
out
their
lairs
as
food crops
in acid clay
cry fruitless
over
fertility clinic letters
under
the
yellow
star
from quora.com
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