Semilla

As with galaxies, with flowers—
each one is a drain,
a cyclopic, dense
defiant, i.e.
funny
oaf.

The blooms totter in our cupped
palms, albatross unable
to stand on our deck
as per Baudelaire,
& thank Wilbur,
for the sight
of webs

below the cantankerous wings,
that no doubt straggled
there to only die
amid spittle
and jabs.

The seesaw of going sublime
only to arrow off to the real
blankness, and finding
the seed hardening
down at the base
of the naked
flor.

Copyright © 2007 Ricardo Pau-Llosa All rights reserved
from Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission