Hothouse Flower

Hothouse flower steamed, your petals pressed against the glass, all your colors raining down round boiling letterbox, a letter from whom, they whisper in the next room, is he tall, or does he draw, is he masked and does he ask if you can dream of lifetimes past-- ice clay pallor, will he wander through the fog to find your petals become waterlogged, will he touch or want it much, the frozen limbed and green-eyed bunch, inflamed until the heart is pounding, all the doubts arise resounding, passion proves a wicked thing, to make you drunk on how it sings. When you hear its first note calling the poison song of coal black berry, you will know its weight to be more than you can carry winter, summer, fall or spring.