these were called ‘mature elegance’
these ‘I share your sentiments’
these ‘Thy frown will kill me’
what grew in your yard
exposed you as philosopher
or poser or benevolent potato
but now it’s the language of dead flowers
proliferates in local dialects and lanes
brought down from lofty porches
to the silent loam of love
whose thoughts are not his own
but rise and speak like flowers
whose grammar is their colors
a brilliance come and gone
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