… I am lost in a city of flowers—
the streets are riddled with seed and petal
and the buildings open in romantic blooms.

The city sprouts, the city grows,
the city twists into tangled groves,
windows open to spill their yellow pollen
and feed the beauty humming overhead,
sweet and gentle, doting partner,
lips to the white flesh of a nectarine.

The air is golden with it,
and I learned the language of the sun by proximity.

Even still,
the wind blows cold and sharp,
the sun crashes down into the horizon,
sunflowers begin to show their signs of senescence,
and then they wilt.

Their petals fall in moldy scorch,
seeds spewing out like morning sick,
and I watch it all, paralyzed with the shock
of a thunderstorm tearing through my hair.

On the roadside I lie like an eyeless stray dog,
panting and disoriented with the change of seasons,
searching for something to focus on.

And a figure appears behind me,
gently pressing a hand to my head.
I lean into the touch and am hoisted to my feet.

I can see again,
and so I wander—
through streets dusted faintly with seed and petal,
through buildings opening in romantic blooms …