Fucking Hell, Ash

I was picking all the wrong flowers I was
disgusted in my bouquets: how could they!
I was soaking them in water and light.
I was holding them so tight, crudely,

forcing us to rhyme: why wouldn’t they
do what they will never be able to do?

I was putting them down and
looking at my hands: they shook.
I was clenching fists and releasing
a finger, that turned around and pointed

so far behind me—still
through me—it threw me. I was

in a field swaying this whole time
with my hands up, flowers all around me
that I couldn’t pick up: don’t say that! Yuk!
Awful! But it never has anything

to do with you
is said: I was letting the wind

move us. I was forgetting the dream of an “us”.
I was growing up! But not like the fairy tales or
history books—that I wrote, in fact. I was trying to say nothing
at all: my god!—we’ve done it again! I was back in the field

still—OK: waving? Only a bit though! Waiting? No! Swing-
ing swaying

about catching
on letting go too
little, it seems.