I don’t praise sunflowers because sunflowers
die. Their impossible Fibonacci
seed faces turn to dust no man cares counting
or thinking of. And my breath, fluently expelled,
pumped up from a hot heart taken
with lemon gold hair and its inevitable bliss
a moment might be praised,
but I die too. So much of what we call Forever
is whatever petals breeze-battered we happen to
catch between the pages of our paper nets,
as if neither paper nor
The sun came by word
flaming like a second earth
combusting in the sky.
Man’s glory is like flowers bowed by wind,
like grassy fields.
We see the word made sun, are stunned
as blind and deaf, letting our bones bleach
out in fading fields.
But some will rise
and watch the sun die out alive.