The beautiful primrose
reinforces this notion
that we’re alone in the world—
maybe more so for me,
since I’m a poet, but you
should know that I’m also
a failed florist. I’ve thrown
pots out of windows,
pulled up half-decomposed
vegetation with those
cottony gloves we all know
so well, picked flimsy petals
from damp bouquets,
and for what? For whom?
The solo rose says, hey,
there’s only you,
multifoliate yet singular—
and imperially alone.
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