Eric Cline

THESE I SINGING IN SPRING
                    after Walt Whitman

 

give freely:

green carnations,
spectrums of color
woven in handkerchiefs,
lavender lips
forming sounds of lusts
unspoken, loves too

[i whisper all manner
of frightening things]

and nothing more than
a self, a flower

in bloom against all
odds, all pesticides sprayed

in futility at the trunk
of the oldest
tree known to man.


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